Fair Exchange
by Richefic
Summary: The further adventures of Mr Timothy McGee alongside the dangerous Mr Gibbs and the mad Mr Anthony by kind permission of Sequitur. When kidnappers start targeting the sons of nobles it spells trouble for our trio. "Gentlemen of Last Resort" verse.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer – The characters of NCIS belong to their creators. The Victorian-verse in which this story is set was lovingly created by Sequitur and is used with her kind permission.

AN – If you are interested in what motivated me to write this after so long an absence feel free to go check out my profile. Long story short is Sequitur offered me a whole new sandbox to play in and I could not resist.

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><p><strong>Chapter One<strong>

"I'm still not at all certain about this," Catching sight of his reflection in the glass hung over the fireplace Timothy McGee was sure his own mother would scarcely recognise him in such an array of finery. He tugged lightly at the cravat, which Anthony had tied, rather too tightly in Timothy's opinion, around his neck. "Perhaps, it would be best if you were to go alone after all?"

"And how would that serve to further your introduction into polite society?" Anthony demanded with a frown, not looking at him, as he lifted cushions and moved books, clearly in search of some item. Timothy wasn't at all sure if the frown was meant for him or the missing item.

"Not in the slightest, but I am perfectly content to stay at home with my books and contraptions. Not every man feels your need to always be abroad," Timothy pointed out. "I notice you do not subject Gibbs to these constant excursions."

"That is because Gibbs is already well aware of how a gentleman _should_ conduct himself, " Looking up, Anthony scowled at Timothy's altered cravat and broke off from his searching to stride over and use both hands to return it firmly to what was evidently in his mind its proper place. Meeting Timothy's gaze he continued. "If Gibbs were to cause offence you can be sure it would be deliberate and not because he is ignorant of how things _ought_ to be done. Besides, the carriage has already been sent for and I went to some considerable effort to have you included in the party, it would scarcely do to back out now."

Timothy supposed he ought to feel grateful. Despite his own rather unconventional manner, Anthony had apparently seen it as his duty to ensure that a mere merchant's son was fully conversant with the undeniably complex ways of London society. Timothy had to admit that although at times he had grown irritated with the almost constant tutelage, it was something of a comfort to know he would not embarrass himself in this strange new world he now inhabited.

"So, given our attire I suppose it is too much to expect that a supper party will be a simple affair in front of the fire with friends?" He acquiesced.

"Well, it is a smaller gathering than a ball," Anthony admitted, giving off a small cry of triumph, as he located his gloves, half hidden behind a pile of The Gentleman's Magazine. "But no, by no means a simple affair. On arrival there will be some light conversation and then our hostess will indicate which lady each of us will escort into the dining room, somewhere between six to nine courses. Lady Hertford likes to impress so most likely nine. Can you recall the placement of the stemware?

"Top row, water glass, glass for chambertin, glass for latour, champagne glass; bottom row, green glass for sauterne, sherry glass, and a red glass for Rhine wine." McGee recited carefully.

"Bravo," Anthony grinned at him, in a slightly feral manner that Timothy still found somewhat unsettling. "Although, since nobody will be requiring us to serve ourselves what with half a dozen footmen in attendance, I can't see why it matters a jot that either of us should know it. But there you are. "

At that moment the clatter of hooves on the cobblestones coming to a sudden halt outside clearly announced the arrival of a carriage. Anthony and Timothy looked at each other in some surprise, before Anthony pulled out his pocket watch to confirm what they both already knew. The vehicle was a good fifteen minutes early.

"I though the carriage was ordered for a quarter past the hour." Gibbs' voice spoke from the door.

"And so it was, sir," Anthony clung fast to hope as he put his watch away. "Although, not everyone in London drives as you do. Perhaps, the driver merely wishes to ensure we are punctual?"

"Perhaps."

To Timothy's ear, it did not sound as if Gibbs was agreeing. Nor did the manner in which he strode over to the window to see who their unexpected visitor was, suggest that he had been convinced by the argument. Indeed, seeing how Anthony's own shoulders slumped at the likely prospect of an interruption to his plans for the evening it did not even appear he had any faith in his own words.

People did not generally call at this house, Gibbs being a man who much preferred his own society and Anthony one whom was much about town. Not to mention, as a cane rapped imperiously on the door, that in the normal course of things Timothy didn't think any driver or man servant would announce himself with a knock of such authority. This was a man accustomed to demanding respect.

"Sir?"

The wealth of questions in Anthony's tone immediately attracted Timothy's attention. For he was unaccustomed to hearing a man who was courageous to the point of being quite foolhardy, in the words of the good Dr Mallard, sound quite so uncertain. Looking over, he saw Anthony had become quite pale, looking as skittish as a colt and just as like to bolt. It was hardly clear whether it was the sheer terror, loyalty to Gibbs, or his own undoubted courage which kept him anchored in place, perhaps, a little of all.

"It's Morrow."

Neither the curtness of Gibbs' tone, nor the grim, hard, lines, of his expression, seemed in the slightest measure designed to reassure, but the relief bled out of Anthony regardless, making him sag just a little, before he visibly tried to pull himself together and step forward to address the matter in hand.

"Shall I answer the door, sir?"

It was not a question that usually arose. Timothy had quickly realised that the few visitors they did have were accustomed to letting themselves in and out as they pleased, for the front door was never locked. Nonetheless, the fact remained that this caller was waiting to be admitted and with the Mrs Anderson gone home for the evening, Miss Dawes on her evening off and no other servant in the household, then one of them must do it.

"You are not my servant, Anthony." Gibbs snapped.

"No sir," To Timothy's surprise, Anthony, who had still been a little wild around the eyes as if his body refused to allow such recent terror to be vanquished by will alone, incredulously seemed further steadied by the sharp rebuke. Timothy did not think that he could bear Gibbs' wrath so lightly. But Anthony seemed to read something in Gibbs' manner that he had missed, for his response was calm and steady, under lain with both unwavering respect and a measure of affection. "But I am your assistant, Sir and in this matter I am more than willing, and I hope able to assist."

It was only when Gibbs turned his head and something in his features softened at Anthony's earnest expression that McGee realised that their employer had also been somewhat put on edge by their unexpected caller. And wasn't that was an un-nerving discovery for Gibbs was not a man easily surprised. Although, Timothy could not for the life of him think why any caller, even one of some evident quality, might be the cause of such consternation, for he had never had never met anyone who seemed to court danger with such impunity as these two or have such scant regard for rank.

"No," Gibbs spoke decisively, but there was something of an apology in both his tone and the way he paused to momentarily rest a hand on Anthony's shoulder as he passed on his way to the staircase. "I'll do it."

And so, they all went downstairs and when the door was opened Gibbs had executed a bow of near military precision. Timothy had only seconds to comprehend that by "Morrow" Gibbs actually mean his grace the Lord Thomas Morrow, Duke of Rutland before his Lordship was inside and Anthony performing his own bow with a grace that McGee doubted he could replicate.

"Mr Gibbs, Anthony, my boy." Lord Morrow greeted them both with an unexpected degree of familiarity and warmth.

"My Lord, may I present Mr Timothy McGee," Gibbs nodded in his direction.

"My Lord," McGee bowed, a good deal more awkwardly than Anthony, being rather too focused on not falling over his own feet, merchants' sons not commonly being accustomed to having a bone fide Duke in their own hallway. "It is an honour to make your acquaintance."

"The pleasure is mine Mr McGee. For you must be a man of some uncommon talents, for Gibbs to accept you so readily into his employ." Lord Morrow observed.

McGee felt a flush stain his cheeks to know that a man such as Lord Morrow had already heard of his new employment. All at once put in mind of the conversation he had overheard at the commencement of their acquaintance between Antony and Gibbs he resolved he must 'do things well' to ensure that Lord Morrow would instil his full confidence in him.

"You are most gracious, my Lord," He responded politely. "I fully intend to repay Mr Gibbs faith in me by my most diligent service."

"Quite so," Lord Morrow nodded approvingly, although a faint smile of amusement tugged at his lips at the young man's most earnest assurances, before his expression fell into grim lines and he turned his attention to business. "Gibbs, I must apologise for the intrusion. I am well aware of your reluctance to entertain at home indeed I confess I rather depended upon it, as the matter I wish to discuss is rather delicate and not yet commonly known, if I may require a moment of your time?"

As the two men proceeded upstairs and Anthony made no move to follow, Timothy wondered if he might escape to change into his more accustomed attire. No wonder the nobility were always so upright when their collars were so stiff. For a moment, nothing was heard but the tick of the clock and the murmur of voices from the floor above until Anthony groaned as if in pain.

"Lady Hertford," He said by way of explanation at Timothy's curious look, "the carriage will be here imminently and she will still be expecting us. And now the table will be two short and worse there will be an entirely unequal number of ladies and gentlemen. Must the world always conspire to tear me away from my entertainments with its business? Could not these matters confine themselves to a more convenient time?"

"Since you seem to spend all your time when you are not engaged in 'business' as you term it, in the pursuit of entertainments, I hardly see how that might be possible." Timothy observed.

"And here I thought you were a man of science, McGee," Anthony retorted, as he turned and headed towards the kitchen. Presumably, since they were evidently to be denied the pleasures of Lady Hertford's table, to see what could be put together in the way of supper. "And yet you have failed to observe your subject with any degree of accuracy. I also devote a good measure of my time to numerous _other _pursuits."

Reaching the pantry, he swiftly located a plate of cold tongue, a wheel of cheese and half a loaf of bread and began to cut slices off each, popping a slice of tongue wrapped around a piece of cheese into his mouth as he worked without regard to plates or silverware.

"You do seem to spend an inordinate amount of your time eating anyone would imagine you lived in constant fear for your next meal." Timothy agreed lightly.

Unexpectedly, Anthony stilled, the knife frozen in mid air, as if the words had unwittingly ripped the bandage off a wound as yet only part- healed and caused it to bleed again. Not for the first time Timothy was reminded how little he really knew about his new companions.

"Maybe, his Lordship's business will not involve us," He offered by way of apology, although for what he was not entirely sure.

"I am rarely that fortunate," Anthony rolled in eyes in a dramatic manner, which Timothy rightly took as a sign of swift forgiveness. "And besides, not even Lord Morrow would so far presume on his prior association with Gibbs as to disturb him at home unless the matter was one of one of extreme importance."

"What could possibly befall a man of Lord Morrow's status that he would require our services?" Timothy wondered.

"Perhaps the fact that his only son and heir has been taken hostage," Gibbs informed them, from the doorway.

"Not blackmail," Anthony immediately vetoed that. "Lord Morrow is above reproach and his heir is a young man of good character."

"No, not blackmail," Gibbs agreed. "Exhortation, pure and simple, Lord Morrow's heir will only be safely returned upon the payment of a King's random."


	2. Chapter 2

With Lord Morrow having taken his leave, the other carriage duly came at a quarter past the hour and was sent on to Lady Hereford woefully lacking in occupants, carrying instead a message about a sudden indisposition and a desire not to pass the malady around the assembled company. As if to make up for missing another evening of society Anthony had embellished the tale with an almost macabre delight, adding pus and fistulas to a standard fever until Timothy wasn't sure if he would ever be accepted at any company's table ever again.

He would have protested but he found that he wasn't particularly unsettled by the prospect.

Instead, he found himself pressed into service, carrying plates, silverware and napkins to set the table, as Anthony loaded up a tray with food and Gibbs took charge of brewing the tea. It was all rather domestic, Timothy thought, as they sat down to a plain supper except for the fact that he didn't imagine that the conversation across the dining table in many other households revolved around the kidnap and rescuing of a Marques. Clearing a space on the table, Gibbs laid out a letter, which was clearly the ransom note.

"It was brought in the post by the letter carrier in the usual way. Lord Morrow and his heir often correspond. No one thought anything of it." Gibbs explained.

"It's written in the Marques' own hand and sealed with his signet," Anthony commented. "And it was posted across town in St Martin's le Grand yesterday evening, which gives us some hope that the kidnappers are at least still in London."

"How do you know where it was posted?" Timothy wondered.

"London is divided into eight postal districts," Anthony explained. "Each one has their own cancel, this mark here, so a stamp cannot be used more than once. EC stands for Eastern Central. Useless, I suppose to try and get a finger print from it, having passed though so many hands. Although, if it can be accomplished, it might prove helpful, for the thing is careful to tell us little else of any material benefit."

"We know when and where they wish the ransom to be left," Gibbs pointed out. "And we can be certain they will send someone to collect it."

"Are we to lie in wait for them?" Timothy enquired.

"I fear we have corrupted McGee beyond all reasonable measure, sir for he sounds quite eager for the fray, now that you have educated him in the noble art of boxing," Anthony gave one of his slightly feral smiles. "Although, I confess, I wouldn't mind the attempt. I haven't had my nose broken for some several months and it healed uncommonly well the last time."

"Better to use the time we have to see if a brawl can be avoided," Gibbs decided. "Morrow will not wish to be embarrassed by a public scandal the sight of your blood will distress Abby."

And distress Gibbs also, Timothy rather thought, recalling how solicitous of the younger man's welfare their employer had been when Thomas Trevington's man had been rash enough to take a horse whip to his assistant. Gibbs' cold fury at both the injury and the insult had spoke volumes about the depth of his affection for the younger man. Although, given how chastened he looked at their employer's words, _that_ sentiment seemed to escape Anthony entirely.

"My apologies, sir, for neither was my intention," Anthony abruptly stood up as if to make amends for his fault by getting straight to business. "If you will excuse me, I will go and see what intelligence about this matter can be found abroad," He gave a stiff bow as he spoke with unaccustomed formality for this household. "I assure you, l shall be the soul of discretion in order to cause no embarrassment to his Lordship or yourself."

"You haven't finished your supper." Gibbs did not excuse him.

"I have accomplished your bidding with far less sustenance in the past." Anthony dismissed that.

"Not since you have lived under my roof," Gibbs correctly mildly, even as he reached for the teapot and poured out a cup, adding half the sugar bowl to it, just the way Anthony preferred it, before placing it by his plate. "There will be time enough afterwards to accomplish all that needs to be done."

"Sir." Anthony's tone was anguished, but for what cause Timothy couldn't fathom.

"Tony," Gibbs held his gaze for a moment and then tipped his head at the tea cup. "Sit down and drink your tea."

For a moment, Timothy thought Anthony might actually disobey. Then he averted his gaze and pressed his lips together tightly for a moment before dropping back into his chair and reaching for his teacup, lifting it up to take a long satisfied swallow, when he placed the cup back into its saucer, he leaning back in his chair with a grin, seeming as if for all the world nothing at all had happened, a trait Timothy found both admirable and somewhat disturbing.

"What we need," Anthony declared. "Is a particular advantage, if we had the element of surprise, then even if we were out numbered, we would still have the upper hand."

"What did you have in mind?" Gibbs enquired.

"Not I, McGee," As Timothy looked up in surprise at the mention of his name, Anthony looked across the table at him. "They are bound to open the baggage to ensure they have secured their ill gotten gains. Could you make one of your contraptions so that it released some kind of dye which stained their hands? If timed correctly it could both serve as a distraction and also a means to find the man again, if we do not immediately secure him."

"I expect so," McGee's mind was already working on the problem. He looked at Gibbs. "I wonder, sir if you are especially attached to that cuckoo clock in the cellar? I couldn't help but notice it was broken?"

"It was a gift," Gibbs scowled but offered no further explanation as to its origin. "Never could abide it."

"And the reason it's broken is that one evening Gibbs became so impatient with its endless repetition that he took out his revolver and shot it. So, I think you may consider that sufficient licence McGee to do with it as you please." Anthony declared with an impudent grin. Causing Gibbs to scowl, although Timothy thought he caught the hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth, albeit it one that was quickly hidden by his teacup.

"Thank you," McGee smothered his own smile, not yet quite sure what liberties his new employer would allow him and thinking it not entirely prudent to follow Anthony's example in all matters. "Then I believe I can indeed accomplish what you need."

"Whilst you occupy yourself with that I will go with Anthony and we will see what is known around town about this business." Gibbs decided.

"It is kind of you sir, but if you'll forgive me, you are not exactly dressed for the type of establishment's Lord Morrow's heir would frequent," Anthony shook his head. "Nor would I put you to the inconvenience of changing for a task that you will detest and I can easily accomplish alone and still be home well before midnight."

"If it were an inconvenience I would not have offered." Gibbs pointed out.

"And yet in the normal course of things you cannot endure to put on your evening wear and go about town making polite conversation, unless there is the cheerful prospect of someone or something to shoot afterwards." Anthony pointed out.

"Nonetheless, I will accompany you." Gibbs was resolute.

"Sir," Still Anthony would not let it lie.

"Anthony, I am coming and that is an end to the matter." Gibbs clenched his jaw tightly.

It was clear he was rapidly losing any patience for this conversation and McGee rather thought that he might quite shortly shoot Anthony if his assistant did not desist. But it seemed that the other man had no sense of self preservation for he persisted.

"Sir, if this is about earlier," Anthony coloured slightly. "I give you my word I do not require your supervision to see that all things are done as you, Lord Morrow and even Abby would approve."

"_Tony,_" To Timothy's considerable surprise all Gibbs impatience melted away in an instant, indeed he seemed almost pained by his assurances, casting a swift look at McGee, before turning his attention back to Anthony and lowering his voice meaningfully. "This is _not_ about before."

"Then what ..?" Anthony looked confused for a moment and then utterly appalled. "Oh Lord sir. You don't imagine that they have tried this trick before? Indeed, you do and it is most unkind of you to say nothing at all and leave me to puzzle it out for myself."

"Is it possible?" Gibbs demanded.

"I have not heard of it." Anthony shook his head.

"But is it possible?" Gibbs insisted. "You would know better than I."

"You do me too much credit, sir," Anthony scowled. "It is impossible for anyone to know everything about everyone especially when it is something no person of quality would want known."

"You think there have been other kidnappings?" McGee realised. "But surely someone would have said something? There would have been talk, or at least a conspicuous absence."

In answer, Gibbs merely raised a brow at Anthony, who screwed up his features in thought.

"There was talk of Lord Travers heir last month when he missed his cousin's wedding, then two weeks ago, the Duke of Cumberland's heir was conspicuous by his absence at his sister's coming out party. And the Earl of Northumberland's eldest son was supposed to at a ball last week but was apparently indisposed."

"Three others," Gibbs pressed his lips into a tight line.

"In each case, the word around town has been that the miscreant has been sequestered in the country until some debt or other is paid, kept from the joys of society allegedly by the strictures of his family, although clearly it would be entirely possible that there were more sinister forces at work," Anthony frowned. "It is always damnably hard to be entirely satisfied when investigating the actions of the nobility, they will always insist on closing ranks."

"And yet you slip in and out of those ranks with uncommon ease." Timothy observed blithely.

Both men turned and looked at him, in a manner which made him feel not unlike he supposed an insect might feel when placed under a magnifying glass. It felt hot and uncomfortable and not a place he would particularly choose to be.

"I may attend the theatre and frequent some of the better establishments, but it is all in the way of a game, a means to an end," Anthony brushed off the idea. "I wear my coats too often and change my cravats too seldom to pass as real quality for any span of time. In the normal way of things, nobody would ever mistake me for the equal of any Marques."

Timothy wasn't the slightest bit reassured. Anthony certainly dressed like _his_ idea of nobility. And despite his lack of table manners at home, he was the modal of propriety when the occasion called for it. Like a Lord but not quite, Stebbins had told him. And Duke Bennington had been so sure that he had recognised him. Or known someone very like him and indeed, it was impossible for Timothy not to wonder who exactly? Especially, since the expression on Gibbs's face seemed to reflect his concerns.

"McGee, that contraption of your will not build itself." Gibbs spoke. "Anthony and I will deal with things here."

"Yes sir," Timothy nodded at once, recognising his instruction to withdraw. "I'll go and make a start."

Fetching a lamp from the kitchen, he made his way down to the cellar and looked around for a moment, until his eyes adjusted and he saw the broken clock, lying on a near by shelf. He smiled as he turned it over in his hands and saw the splintered wood and edges of powder burn. But the mechanism seemed sound enough for his purpose.

Heading back to the kitchen, Timothy's thoughts were full of how best to turn what he could see so clearly in his mind into functioning machinery. Absently, he placed the lamp back on the shelf at the back of the pantry, for Gibbs assuredly expected things to be where they should for those times when there wasn't the time to look for them. And then froze, as he realised that he could clearly hear voices through the pantry door.

He would go out now, he decided, as he heard Gibbs and Anthony lay down their burdens of silverware and crockery on the kitchen table, whilst the newly returned lamp was still a legitimate excuse for lurking in the pantry. And he would not have overheard anything at all. Pleased with this logical assessment of events, Timothy straightened his shoulders and reached for the door knob, but even as he did he heard Gibbs voice and there was such _feeling _in it, from a man normally so reserved, that discovery now was quite impossible.

"Damn it, Tony, it would hardly matter _how _it was done, if it were to become known ..."

"It has not been known these many years, Sir. And those who might remember would be looking for something else entirely," Anthony sounded almost as if he intended to reassure Gibbs, which seemed to McGee a slightly preposterous notion. "I can be of no service to you if I cannot be allowed abroad and thus might as well have continued as I did before I made your acquaintance, or even before that. Which I assure you would be a living death and any danger weighed lightly in comparison."

"And I would expect no less of you," Gibbs acknowledged. "And so we find ourselves at something of an impasse."

"Perhaps not," Anthony offered almost shyly. "For if my employer is content to place his trust in me, I would be honoured if my friend were willing to stand as my second in what is undoubtedly a risky endeavour."

"I may be your employer, but I am also your friend first and foremost and God help any man who doubts that, you included," There was a brief silence and Timothy imagined Gibbs instigating some small gesture of affection, a pat on the cheek or a hand on the shoulder, before his tone became all business "And so, let us be on our way, for I do not expect that the Marques will rescue himself."

"Thank you, sir."

None of which was anything Timothy had expected at all, however, judging by the depth of sincerity and gratitude in Anthony's thanks, it had been entirely the right thing to say. Timothy just hoped that none of them would come to regret it.

Whatever _it_ might happen to be.


	3. Chapter 3

AN – Having promised regular updates, I am so sorry for the delay. The story is pretty much done but it is on my home computer and due to developments at work I have been working from 7.25am to midnight every day for the last five days. I have barely had time to eat and sleep. Hopefully things will begin to settle down this week and I will have the odd moment to have a life!

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><p>Absorbed in his task, Timothy didn't even notice the evening passing. It wasn't an especially difficult matter to adapt the same mechanism, which had caused the cuckoo clock's door to spring open and send out the small carved wooden bird, to operate a door which would allow a stream of red dye to issue forth. The challenge came in ensuring that the mechanism would be triggered at a time to serve their ends and by the time he had effected <em>that<em> to his satisfaction, he was surprised to realise that it was already a quarter past midnight.

Timothy frowned.

Hadn't Anthony said he could investigate the matter alone and still be home before midnight? Surely, the business should have gone more swiftly with Gibbs' more than able assistance? And yet here it was already tomorrow morning and neither Gibbs nor Anthony safely returned home. Timothy felt a stir of unease. In the normal course of events, he would undoubtedly have contacted the police. But he had swiftly learned that very few things in this household followed the expected order of things.

Nor did he have the least idea where they had gone.

At ten past the hour, when his patience was worn to a razor's edge and his stomach all twisted in knots, the pair of them returned, both of them looking pale with exhaustion and grim faced. Each of them was all over with dirt and their fine evening clothes smelling faintly of ale and something slightly rancid. Gibbs' knuckles were bruised and swollen and Anthony was walking with a limp from some injury Timothy couldn't quite discern. He regarded them with alarm.

"What happened?"

"We asked the right questions in the wrong places," Anthony allowed, as he lowered himself carefully into an armchair. "Or perhaps the wrong questions in the right places. Or even the right questions in the right places as we most assuredly stirred up a hornet's nest."

"Should I go for Dr Mallard?" Timothy offered.

"Nobody at all has died, at least not to our knowledge," Anthony shrugged off his concern even as he accepted the large glass of whiskey Gibbs had fetched for him, a sure sign to Timothy's mind that his injury was more than his friend wished to own if their employer would indulge him by waiting upon him. "God bless you, sir."

"But you are hurt." Timothy decided to make the attempt at insistence.

"This?" Anthony took a long swallow of the whiskey, clearly letting the burn warm him, before he carefully stretched out his leg. "This is nothing. A few hours sleep is the only medicine I need. No need to call out the good doctor."

"We would have been calling out the undertaker if that lead pipe had hit you on the head." Gibbs gave Anthony a pointed look, before talking a swallow of his own drink.

"Sir, now I am indeed wounded," Anthony made a show of offence. "Do you have so little faith in my powers of preservation, or your own tutelage? You will observe that my head not simply entirely whole, but still devilishly handsome, for if I have learnt nothing else in your employ I have most assuredly learned how to duck."

Anthony then grinned broadly at his own jest and even Timothy smiled a little for the light cuffs which Gibbs aimed in Anthony's direction seemed more like tokens of affection than genuine chastisement. Curiously, although the younger man could clearly easily avoid them, he rarely chose to do so. However, the manner in which Gibbs' expression darkened suggested that he did not think that his assistant's present infirmity was the least cause for amusement.

"A pity then, that the Duke of Cumberland's heir did not posses a similar agility." Gibbs glared.

"Are we to have this again?" Anthony scowled tightly in his turn. "Sir, I am no foppish courtier who knows nothing more than velvet slippers and crystal goblets and therefore cannot handle himself in a brawl."

"What happened to the Duke of Cumberland's heir?" Timothy asked.

Gibbs simply looked at Anthony with an arched brow.

"A blade across the ribs," Anthony admitted reluctantly. "And Lord Travers heir a bullet to the shoulder, and rumours that the Earl of Northumberland's eldest son had suffered such a blow to the head that for a time it was feared that his wits might be quite addled. I never said our quarry wasn't dangerous, sir," He addressed himself to Gibbs. "However, it must be acknowledged their ploys do lack finesse, whereas we have McGee's cuckoo contraption to lend us the element of surprise."

"Did you finish it?" Gibbs looked at Timothy.

"Yes, sir."

Timothy fetched the item from the sideboard and placed it on the table. All three men crowded around it.

"How does it work?" Anthony asked, before correcting himself. "No, don't explain for Gibbs surely doesn't have the patience to hear to the end of the matter and will take it upon himself to blame me for asking the question. Does it work and what will it do?"

"Yes, it works and when the bag is opened it will coat their hands with red dye," Timothy assured.

"Caught red handed indeed, as Livingstone would have it," Anthony looked satisfied. At Timothy's blank look, he elaborated. "Guy Livingstone, he incomparable hero of George Alfred Lawrence's work of the same title? For pity's sake, McGee, in all your reading do you consume nothing but science and mathematics?"

"It's smaller than I expected," Gibbs commented with a frown, as he picked it up and turned it around in his hands.

"I made it to fit discreetly in the baggage, sir."

"And you thought of its weight as well as its size," Gibbs realised, the hint of a smile on his lips. "That's good workmanship, McGee."

"Thank you, sir." Timothy blushed slightly at the unexpected praise.

"So, Timothy has made his contraption, I will deliver the ransom and you sir, will prove once again your skill with a weapon. The brigands will be taken, Lord Morrow's son restored to his father's care and all be home in time for a breakfast of bacon, eggs, and devilled kidneys." Anthony announced with great satisfaction.

"No." Gibbs spoke decisively.

"No devilled kidneys?" Anthony looked disappointed.

When Gibbs raised his hand, Timothy fully expected to it connect with the back of Anthony's head for making such a frivolous remark in such dire circumstances. And Anthony judged the blow well deserved, if the way he screwed up his face and waited for the blow to fall, without any attempt to duck, was any indication. However, Gibbs' action surprised the both of them, causing Anthony's eyes to pop open as Gibbs ruffled his hair fondly.

"You may have all the devilled kidneys you can eat when this business is over," Gibbs assured him not unkindly. "Yet, they will be expecting Morrow's personal manservant to deliver the ransom and you are too young to have raised yourself that far in his Lordship's service."

"Oh, no, sir," Anthony's face twisted in consternation. "Pray do not tell me .."

"The stakes are too high to add on the necessary years with any of your usual theatrical fabrications, when I can fit the role well enough," Gibbs cut off his protestations before they could even form. "I will deliver the ransom and your aim can serve our purposes."

"In truth, I would rather trust your aim, sir." Anthony admitted honestly.

"Your aim was sure enough to win that wager with Lord Ellis," Gibbs reminded him "And it's better now."

"I have profited greatly from your instruction, sir," Anthony acknowledged, inclining his head. Then he smiled, a little bashfully. "You recall that wager, sir? That was fully two years ago. I had only been a week or so in your employ."

"I know," Gibbs scowled. "I thought you were going to get your head blown clear off your shoulders."

The gruff words were somewhat at odds with the pride in his eyes and Anthony rightly beamed at the implied compliment. It must have been quite the shot, McGee realised, for Gibbs was a master with any firearm. He had also been subject to his employers' instruction, for merchant's sons were not generally called upon to bear arms, unless it was the odd rabbit or partridge for the table. In contrast, Anthony handled a gun as if raised to it from the cradle.

All three man turned to look at each other as somebody let themselves in downstairs, swiftly relaxing as Dr Mallard's familiar voice was heard taking softly to himself as he made his way up the stairs. A moment later, he appeared in the doorway.

"Ah, gentlemen, I do hope you don't mind the intrusion. I just happened to be passing on my way home from assisting the police with a minor matter and saw that your lamps were still lit. Given the lateness of the hour, I will admit that I was concerned, I do hope that nothing is amiss?"

Anthony straightened a little in his chair and gave Gibbs a level look. Gibbs returned his gaze with an implacable stare. For a moment, they simply looked at one another, and then Gibbs' lips quirked slightly and Anthony's expression relaxed into a rueful grin.

"Gibbs, would fetch you a drink, Ducky, but he broke the little finger he is attempting to hide in his pocket against another man's head in a small altercation earlier tonight and by now it has probably swollen up like a football." Anthony announced, sounding exactly like a school boy telling tales.

"Anthony, would get up and take your coat," Gibbs countered tonelessly. "But he was struck across the back of the leg with a piece of lead pipe in the same fight and by now his muscles have undoubtedly seized up and he would doubtless struggle to stand without help."

"Well." Dr Mallard looked rather too surprised, in everyone's opinion but his own. "Then what a most fortuitous co-incidence that I happened to be passing by."

"It's commonly known that I'm not particularly inclined towards co-incidences, Ducky." Gibbs arched a brow at Anthony.

"Unless, of course, they should prove to be of your own making, sir," His assistant gave no ground.

"Perhaps, you could both save us all some time and admit you each contrived to send word to me about the other?" Mallard decided to end the charade. "Whilst, I might add, neglecting to mention your own infirmities? Then Timothy might be kind enough to fetch me a drink, you both can tell me how you came to be in such a sorry state, I will deal with your respective maladies, and we might all get onto bed, before there is nothing more left of this night?"

As Gibbs little finger was being bound tightly to its neighbour, Anthony recounted the events of their evening, Dr Mallard clearly being trusted to keep such confidences between themselves. Timothy wondered why his employer was paying such close attention to Dr Mallard's work until he realised Gibbs intended to ensure he could remove the bandaging at will. Judging by the sour expression he was wearing Anthony had noticed the same thing.

"I suppose it is the best I could hope for." He sighed. "Will you at least endeavour to keep it in place until we must deliver the ransom, sir?"

"I won't take it off," Gibbs smiled, a little dangerously. "Unless, the circumstances require it."

"Now do you have any oats," Dr Mallard asked. "And a little cold water if you please?"

"What I don't understand," Timothy remarked, when the oats had been fetched from the stables and cold water from the kitchen and efficiently mixed into a thick paste spread onto a bandage. "Is why none of these families contacted the police when they received the ransom demand? With their connections every man at Scotland Yard would have been lining up to offer their assistance."

"A man like Morrow wouldn't do anything to put his son in danger," Gibbs spoke up. "Getting the police involved would attract entirely the wrong sort of attention."

"Inspector Fornell, has his procedures and the opinions of his superiors to concern himself with," Anthony added, watching as by dint of the simple expedient of rolling up his trouser leg and rolling down his stocking, Dr Mallard's deft hands revealed the livid red mark on his leg, already edged with bruising. "It has its uses, but it also means the criminals can learn to anticipate his actions and so be one step ahead. We on the other hand, are quite unpredictable."

"Amen to that." Gibbs agreed.

"It is also an unpalatable fact, that some men care more for their reputation than their own progeny and misplacing an heir is not something any gentlemen will readily admit to, being as it is rather careless, if not conspicuously negligent on their part." Dr Mallard picked up the thread of the conversation, as he placed the cold poultice against the wound and bandaged it tightly around Anthony's leg. "I do beg your pardon, Anthony," he broke off as the young man flinched under his touch. "Did I hurt you?"

"No, its fine, Ducky," Anthony allowed. "It's just cold."

"As it must be my boy, as that will bring the swelling down nicely," Dr Mallard began to pack up his supplies. "Keep it on overnight and I will come by tomorrow and see if it needs to be changed before you must make your rendezvous."

"McGee, will show you out," Gibbs nodded his thanks. "And I will help Anthony towards bed, for there is much to do come the morning."

Reminded of what exactly lay ahead, Timothy couldn't help but feel his stomach churn. As they descended the stairs together, Dr Mallard offered a kindly glance, at the obviously anxious young man.

"You must not concern yourself too much. For Gibbs will always take care of Anthony, as assuredly as Anthony will always watch over Gibbs, and whilst you are undeniably new to this type of business, you have acquitted yourself tolerably well thus far and they have sufficient experience for you all."

"It's not that," Timothy's smile twisted. "I was just thinking that I have never been so glad not to be the offspring of nobility."


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning they were all up again, almost before they had gone to bed, or so it seemed, with the sky still dark outside and the lamps needing to be lit as they moved around in their shirt sleeves, each busy with their appointed tasks. At some point, Morrow's driver had dropped off the ransom money, in one of his own portmanteaus and Gibbs, although to be dressed in a plain coat rather than any livery, as befitted the secrecy of the matter, would bear his Lordship's signet ring as proof of authority to act.

"We are to have breakfast first?" Timothy paused in surprise, as he entered the kitchen to fix the contraption into the bag only to find Anthony heaping mounds of bacon onto a platter, a pot of tea sitting already on the scrubbed wooden table and a pile of bread and butter besides. "I'm not sure I could stomach a thing."

"Eat." Gibbs commanded shortly, coming unexpectedly behind him, taking a round of bread himself and piling bacon upon it, before departing no less abruptly.

"Don't mind Gibbs," Anthony counselled, even as he lifted the lid of the teapot to see if it was brewed. "He has a long standing personal obligation to Lord Morrow which it would not do to repay by causing him to mourn his only son and heir."

"Gibbs has a _personal _obligation to Lord Morrow?" Timothy trailed off as the full implications of that. And what it would mean to fail. He swallowed hard. "Now I feel even less inclination to eat."

"Nevertheless," Anthony pulled out a chair, placed a plate of bread and bacon in front of it and indicated that Timothy should sit. "Gibbs is right, as he always is. An army marches on its stomach McGee and whilst we merry band are not quite an army, should it come to a fight you will do better and move faster with something inside of you."

Succumbing to the inevitable, Timothy took a bite and chewed thoroughly, as if that act might help the food settle more firmly in his stomach. Across from him, Anthony sat down in his shirt sleeves with his elbows on the table and took in half a round of bread and bacon in a single mouthful, before adding a mound of sugar to his tea. Timothy found himself slightly envious of the man's ability to just do as he wished and not have the least care for what others might think.

"What if I do something amiss?" He voiced his fear.

"You have nothing to concern yourself with," Anthony assured him. "For your greatest part, by which I mean your contraption, is already well done. And none can doubt that Gibbs will do whatever is required to bring Lord Morrow's son safely home. We must simply hope that my aim is equal to his estimation."

And beneath everything, Timothy could suddenly see, realised with a shock that he was being _allowed_ to see, Anthony's own fear. Not so much for what might come to pass this morning. But an ever present concern, that somehow one day he would fail to live up to Gibbs' expectations in some way or another. It was a humbling thought that this man, who could be so arrogant and so outrageous, could be so easily utterly destroyed. And honestly, that would not do, for whatever else Anthony might be he was assuredly a good man and his friend.

"Didn't you just tell me that Gibbs is never wrong?" Timothy asked feigning innocence.

"I did say that, didn't I?" Anthony reflected. "Although, I admit, I have never quite understood what prompted him to take me into his employ, for I had little enough to offer him."

"How did you meet Gibbs?" Timothy dared.

"At the point of a sword," Anthony smiled at the memory. "Although, that is not at all the same as to how I came to be in his employ. Which is a story for another day, McGee, as you must affix your contraption and I must see to the horses, for this is one occasion where it would not do at all to be late."

In fact, the plan called for them to arrive some time before their quarry so that Timothy might keep watch from the corner and Anthony hide himself among with the market traders as they set up their stalls, being the only other people out and about at such an unlikely hour. Between Gibbs driving and the relatively quiet streets they made good time to their appointed rendezvous. As he turned up his collar against the morning chill, Timothy almost smiled at how well he himself blended into the scene as a non-descript merchant's son sent to purchase wares for the family store.

Even knowing he should not, he could not help looking out for Anthony. But when after several minutes he not could make out the least sign of him, fear gripped him, for what if something had happened? Should he seek out Anthony and leave Gibbs to fend for himself? Or should he follow the plan and hope they would not afterwards be looking for Anthony's lifeless body in some alley or another? It was not until he was passing a pile of rags laid against the side of a building and the rags stuck out a foot and tripped him that he turned to see a pair of very familiar eyes.

"You were looking altogether too anxious," Anthony chided him softly, even as he stretched out a begging hand to cover his true words. "Keep to your own part and let Gibbs and I worry about the rest."

It took McGee a moment, before he could summon his wits to reach into his pocket and drop a coin into the open palm and walk on as if nothing was amiss. For Anthony's hand and nails, usually so immaculate were grimly with dirt. The brown coat he was wearing, which had been worn but serviceable the last time Timothy had seen him, was marked with what looked like blood and smelt like a cross between a public house and a chamber pot. Even his hair was stiff and dishevelled, and one of his shoes had a hole in the sole and a glimpse of bare foot showing through. He had even been careful not to show his teeth when he spoke, in order not to shatter the illusion of a homeless vagabond.

Feeling somewhat reassured about the success of their plan, Timothy leant against a wall and watched as Gibbs made his way across the square, towards a more deserted alleyway looking every inch the loyal retainer entrusted with a task of grave importance. To the point when their quarry stepped out in front of him, he actually made a show of starting somewhat with surprise.

"You know what I want?" The man challenged.

Fumbling just slightly, Gibbs reached into his pocket and produced Lord Morrow's signet ring. Their quarry glanced to his left and nodded. Catching sight of the nondescript man, standing by the lamp post, his features entirely hidden by the brim of his hat, Timothy mentally weighed the odds. Three to two, although, he supposed there was at least a third somewhere with the Marquis.

"Is that it?" The man reached for the bag.

"I've instructions from his Lordship to have sight of the Marquis first." Gibbs shifted it slightly, so it was just out of reach.

"His Lordship is in no position to make demands." The man sneered. Without warning he lunged forward and snatched the bag and hefted its weight, a lop-sided sneer crossing his face. "And now I have the ransom money and you have nothing at all. So, you must go back to his Lordship and tell him we will settle for no less than double this."

"I'm not going to do that." Gibbs shook his head.

"Are you so much the Duke's man that you would die in his service?" The man scoffed.

"Assuredly," Gibbs spoke sincerely and Timothy had no cause to doubt him. "But then you will be a murderer and poorer besides, for there is no money in _that_ bag."

"What?" The man scowled.

"Be my guest," Gibbs nodded at the portmanteau. "Each time you have taken a victim the amount of ransom has been increased. It was a small thing to imagine that sooner or later you would raise the stakes."

"You're a liar, there's money in here," The man hefted the bag again. "I can feel the weight of it." But Gibbs implacable expression fuelled his doubts and he reached for the fastenings, only to find that Gibbs was faster as he blocked his way. Feeling somewhat perturbed, Timothy looked across, but although the nondescript man straightened up he did not move from his position.

"Make no mistake, his Lordship and I served together in our youth. I would not only die for him, I will most certainly kill for him," Gibbs hissed. "The Marquis, if you please."

"A soldier," The man grumbled. "I should have know, mad the entire lot of you. It cannot be done, for he is not close at hand."

"Navy," Gibbs corrected. "And I will wait for him to be brought but I shall not be asking for a third time."

The man looked again to his left. Which suggested to Timothy that the non-descript man was their leader. And then, after some time had passed there was indeed a third and a fourth, for at his signal, two men came around the corner, dragging the Marquis between them and the good Lord help them, a sixth, for another man came in their wake, a scarf obscuring his face and his revolver only half hidden under his coat. The odds were two to one then, and the Marquis much the worse for wear, not the least aware of his surroundings and certainly in no shape to aid their plan.

"He lives. And so the money, if you please." The man with the scarf demanded.

"As you wish," Gibbs kicked the bag slightly towards the kidnappers. "Have at it."

And then it seemed as if all hell broke lose. For the man with the scarf around his face snatched up the bag, even as Gibbs drew his revolver. Showing no mercy, the man shoved one of his accomplices towards Gibbs, forcing him to shoot the henchman as he ran off. At the same moment, a second shot rang out, swiftly followed by third as Anthony found his marks and the two men holding the Marques fell to the ground. Remembering his part, McGee raced over and took the Marques full weight and swiftly dragged him from the fray around the corner to where Dr Mallard was waiting with the carriage.

"Oh my," Dr Mallard came forward and helped him settle the young man in the carriage, swiftly checking him over, something in the physician relaxed. "Never fear, it is merely an excess of alcohol which has caused him to lose his senses."

"You thought opium?" Timothy hazarded.

"Such a legacy would have been a heavy burden for any young man to throw off," Dr Mallard agreed solemnly, as he continued checking for physical injuries. "Otherwise, he has not been well treated but nothing that won't heal with time and care. What of Gibbs and Anthony?"

"Here they come now."

As soon as the other men drew close enough for Timothy to see their expressions he knew all had not gone well. Gibbs was grim faced and Anthony was cursing softly under his breath.

"Four dead," Gibbs supplied curtly. "The one with the scarf winged with a knife wound, the other with the hat got away scot free."

"You lost him?" Timothy commiserated with Anthony, assuming that was where the error lay.

"I lost him," Gibbs snarled vehemently "When he ran into a crowd for I have little stomach for filling innocent women and children full of lead, McGee."

The younger man stood stock still, knowing that Gibbs' fury was not directed at him, but unsure how to respond to such a torrent from the usually taciturn man. Before he could chose a course of action Anthony left off his cursing and placed a hand on Gibbs' shoulder, which to Timothy's mind was an act of great daring when the man was practically trembling with fury and said the most unexpected thing.

"Sir, that other still has my knife, for it stuck fast in his shoulder and now it is surely lost."

Gibbs spun around at his touch, his eyes blazing and his body tense like a hawk targeting a mouse, and McGee half expected his fury to cause his fist to follow, leaving Anthony reeling and bruised besides. What he did not expect was the look of genuine chagrin on Anthony's face. Nor indeed did Gibbs if the way he stopped short as his assistant lifted his chin, looking Gibbs in the eye, even as a flush of mortification spread across his face at his own carelessness.

"You did what I trained to you do," Gibbs absolved him gruffly, scrubbing at his own face with one hand, as if that might also scrub the rest of his anger away. The smallest of smiles, quirked at the edge of his lips, "At least, your aim was true."

"Ahem," Timothy's face twisted as he noticed two uniformed police officers heading purposefully in their direction. "I hesitate to enquire but did anyone think to at least advise Inspector Fornell of what we were endeavouring to accomplish?"


	5. Chapter 5

Timothy would have hoped to count the safe return of the Marquis, only a little the worst for wear, as something of a victory. Even the policemen, after some initial bluster, when faced with the weight of Lord Morrow's name and a situation already accomplished, had agreed that this pleasing end justified their rather unorthodox means. But Gibbs seemed to have taken every mark on the young man's person as a direct insult. And Anthony's conversation had dwelt entirely too much on the loss of his knife. As a consequence, living with the two of them had become something of a trial.

Especially, as despite enlisting the aid of their friends, they had not found a single piece of evidence to help them track down the two remaining kidnappers.

"The four men you shot were of little importance," the Lady David advised, as they all gathered in Gibbs' parlour. "Except, perhaps to their own families. A drink or two in the tavern and the promise of a handful of silver sufficed to secure their loyalty."

"The two who escaped covered their faces to avoid being known." Gibbs observed.

"That is because they are clever as well as cautious," the Lady allowed. "And they are most certainly dangerous, for no one would speak of them no matter what persuasions I used."

Timothy swallowed hard as he reflected on the types of persuasion the Lady with her petticoats full of knives and her equally dangerous affections might consider apt. He wasn't at all sure that he would have been able to withstand her determination in any form. Although, he had to admit to a marked disappointment when a brooding Anthony let that particular remark pass in silence. Glancing across the room he saw a similar disquiet reflected in Miss Abigail's expression.

"A knife wound such as Anthony inflicted would swiftly require a physician's attention before gangrene set in," Dr Mallard was speaking. "I have asked all of my acquaintances working in local Hospitals, or those who act as personal physicians, none of them have treated anyone for a knife wound in the shoulder in the last few days."

"And the knife itself is quite unique," Abby added brightly, trying in vain to catch Anthony's eye. "If not for the quality of the blade, which is of the best possible type, then for the carving on the handle, which only the most skilled of artisans could replicate. If they try to sell it, it would be simplicity itself to trace it back."

"More likely it is in the bottom of the Thames by now," Anthony shook his head. He turned to face Gibbs and gave a small bow. "My deepest apologies, sir, for in an instant I have cast off what took days of patient work to accomplish and am now short a serviceable blade besides."

Timothy blinked as he belatedly realised the reason Anthony had been quite so fixated on the loss of his knife was because it had been a gift from Gibbs. One clearly made with painstaking care and obvious affection.

"Gibbs would have done the same to try and catch the villains, wouldn't you, Gibbs?" Abby put in, in an obvious attempt to prompt their employer to give some word of encouragement. "And Ziva would gladly lend you one of her knives to make up the shortfall, wouldn't you?"

"Much as the opportunity to investigate the folds of the Lady's gown intrigues me, her blades are not weighted for my hand," Anthony forced a brittle smile. "I might as well take one of Mrs Anderson's knives from the kitchen for it would be equally serviceable as a weapon."

"Perhaps, this one will serve you better." Gibbs spoke.

They all watched as Gibbs pulled his own knife from his pocket and pressed it into Anthony's hand, closing his fingers around it, offering the glimmer of a smile, before he let go.

"But sir, this is your knife .."

The protest died in Anthony's throat as he weighed the knife in his palm and closed his fingers more comfortably around it. The handle fit as if made for him and the weight and balance felt exactly like his former blade. Lacking the time or materials to make a replacement, Gibbs had obviously re-worked his own blade until it was the twin of the one Anthony had lost.

"I have other knives, Anthony."

Gibbs' words were matter of fact but none the less sincere for that. For his assistant would not be so easy to replace. Anthony met and held his gaze, before he inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement of the sentiment.

"Thank you, sir."

"With that matter is so admirably solved, there still remains the conundrum of how we shall locate and identify our assailants." Dr Mallard spoke up.

"Now that the Marquis has had some time to recover I will call on Lord Morrow," Gibbs decided. "Anything he might reveal might give us the direction we lack."

"I have not yet investigated all avenues available to me," The Lady David admitted. "I may yet discover something of use."

"There's a new play opening at the Adelphi tonight," Anthony added. "Anyone who is anybody of any quality will be in attendance. It would be the perfect opportunity for our quarry to seek new prey."

Gibbs frowned at that and for a moment McGee was sure he was going to forbid the outing. Anthony clearly thought so too, for he was quick to press his case.

"I am both armed and I am assured, quite dangerous," Anthony's smile would have left few in any doubt of either. "My debt to Lord Morrow is no less than yours, sir and if I am to do nothing but stay quietly at home then it should have been all for nothing and I fear I will die of boredom besides, which is hardly an honourable epitaph."

Gibbs gave him a look which was equal parts exasperation, fondness, and Timothy suspected a hint of pride. He had long since suspected that Anthony could have elected to live the life of a gentleman of leisure if he were so minded, and, for all his bluster about wearing the right coat for the season, the fact that he chose to spend his days helping others instead, spoke volumes about his true character.

"Take McGee," Gibbs allowed. "And Tony?"

Already moving towards the door, as if feeling that too much delay might cause Gibbs to change his mind, Timothy suspected it was only Anthony's ingrained respect for their employer and the emotion underlying the more familiar version of his name which caused him to stop and turn.

"Sir?"

"If you must ruin the cuffs of another shirt, the blood had better not be your own."

Gibbs' gruff words seemed somewhat at odds with Anthony's pleased reaction. A faint blush rose above his collar and his face split into a blindingly bright smile. Somehow that obscure sentence had managed to convey both Gibbs' faith in Anthony's abilities and his concern for his welfare.

The night passed in a blur as they raised a glass in one or two of the better gentleman's clubs, mingled with the evening diners in a chop house and took in the play at the Adelphi. In any other circumstances, Timothy might have reflected on how extraordinary his life had become, exchanging pleasantries with Duke's and Earls as if he were their equal, if the memory of the Marquis had not been a constant reminder that underneath the round of gaiety they had a darker purpose.

"You know, you are altogether too good at playing the gentleman," Timothy remarked, as Anthony bid the assembled company farewell and they climbed into yet another cab. "And I for one would rather not be put to the trouble of having to secure your ransom."

He meant the words half in jest, for Anthony might affect the manners of a rake about town, but he had the heart of a honest man, and half as a kindness, for the idea of seeing Anthony become as beaten and bruised as the Marquis had been sickened him to his core. He was not prepared for the way that his friend's expression tightened at his words, his eyes turning dark with some undisclosed memory.

"You wouldn't be alone in thinking I wasn't worth the inconvenience," Anthony acknowledged flatly. "For in truth, I cannot think of a living soul who would trouble themselves to exchange the kind of funds Lord Morrow has at his disposal to secure my safe release."

Timothy's heart sank as he realised his words had had the entirely opposite effect to what he had actually intended. For as much as he would prefer not to race to Anthony's aid, he knew that due to the friendship that the other man has so readily extended, even to risking his own life for Timothy's sake, he would readily place himself in harm's way if it would save Anthony the least bit of discomfort. Although, he had to admit he would struggle to put together the kind of money the kidnappers demanded.

"Surely, Gibbs..?" He trailed off.

For whatever his qualities, employer was not a man to live a lavish lifestyle. He dressed primarily for practically and comfort and for company only when the situation demanded it. Gibbs also eschewed the demands of society, so that his personal needs were few. Certainly the relatively handsome house in which they all resided was Gibbs' alone. Even so, whilst Timothy was certain their employer would readily lay down his life for either of his assistants if the situation called for it, he had no idea whether Gibbs' pocket book would allow him to amass the kind of amount the kidnappers might demand.

"Gibbs is my employer, and I would dare say after this long an acquaintance my friend also," Anthony allowed. "But he is not responsible for me."

Timothy bit the inside of his cheek as he considered his response. Undoubtedly, Gibbs was both employer and (terrifying as the concept might at first have seemed) friend to them both. But whilst Timothy had retained his links to his family, mother, father and sister all at home, Anthony seemed unwilling to acknowledge any connection of consequence except Gibbs and by extension himself, Abigail, Dr Mallard and the Lady David. It was a familiarity that Gibbs seemed not merely to tolerate but to actively encourage.

"Perhaps not," Feeling something of a cad for doing so, Timothy used the only weapon at his disposal. "Still that won't assuage his guilt should anything happen to you."

Whatever Anthony might have said in response, was cut off as the cab came to an abrupt halt worthy of Gibbs' driving. Looking out of the window Timothy saw through the night's persistent drizzle that they had stopped in front of a house, which despite the lateness of the hour, was lit from every window, the sound of music and voices spilling out into the dimly lit street. At a particularly high pitched squeal, he felt the colour rising uncomfortably in his face as he realised this place was a high class brothel.

"Wait here," Anthony advised him.

"Last time I looked I was well above one and twenty." He pointed out, for despite his own misgivings he was strangely reluctant to let Anthony out of his sight.

"That's true enough," Anthony acknowledged. "But unless I miss my mark, you are also still the kind of upright gentleman any parent would be delighted to give their daughter to in marriage. Gibbs would never forgive me for corrupting your morals."

"What about your morals?" Timothy could not help but ask.

The mad Mr Anthony was no doubt somewhat unconventional. He might ape the rules of polite society but his scathing comments made it clear that he set little store by them. However, he was undoubtedly a man with compassion enough to give Miss Dawes a lock for her door and tolerance enough not to care in the least that the Lady David was someone whose heritage ensured she could not readily be accepted as herself in polite society.

"Me?" For once, Anthony looked genuinely surprised. "I can assure you that my chances of making a good match were scuppered long ago. My reputation is of no account to anyone."

Privately, Timothy doubted the truth of that. Gibbs seemed quite determined that Anthony should be the best that he could be. His reprimands always designed to encourage the other man to think better of himself. Still, Anthony had a point if he himself stepped over the threshold of such an establishment he would be utterly changed. Anthony had taken care of himself for many years before making his acquaintance. Surely nothing amiss could arise if he stepped out of his sight for a mere moment or two?

"You will be careful?"

"Always." Anthony's smile was not in the least bit reassuring.

After that, things happened so fast, that it would be some time before Timothy could get it all straight in his head. The doors of the cab opened and two men muscled their way in on either side. At the same time, the driver took off at speed. Even as he tried to fight off his own assailant, McGee's nostrils caught the scent of blood, as Anthony gave a hoarse cry of pain followed by the most tremendous thud. Trying to redouble his efforts, McGee nonetheless, found himself disarmed by sheer brute force. His arms were bound behind him, a paper stuffed into his breast pocket and a gun levied at his head.

"Tell your employer that if he wants to see his precious progeny ever again, he will follow our instructions to the letter. Understood?"

"How do I know you haven't already killed him?" Timothy risked. For the utterly still and blood soaked part of Anthony's form that he could see certainly looked quite dead.

"He took a blow to the head but he's still breathing," The man shifted slightly so that the slightly laboured rise and fall of Anthony's chest was clearly visible. "Although, he won't be doing that much longer if you don't do your part."

And with that, the cab door was opened and a foot against his chest sent Timothy flying to land with a painful thud on the cobbles. And even as he lay there, feeling every single one of his bruises, sickened to his stomach with the scents of human and animal waste, feeling the rain water seep steadily into his clothes, all he could think of was how on earth he would explain any of this to Gibbs.


	6. Chapter 6

"They came out of nowhere," Safely settled in an armchair by the fire, Timothy felt like a total charlatan. He had had his scrapes and bruises carefully tended to by Dr Mallard. The Lady David had taken it upon herself to organise hot tea and nourishing broth and Abigail had tucked a blanket around his knees to ward off any remaining chill. And all the while Anthony had been out there alone and in such grave danger. "The cab driver must have been in the kidnappers' employ."

"More likely he was one of the kidnappers themselves," The Lady corrected. "For you never saw his face."

"True," Timothy looked anxiously at Dr Mallard. "Is the ransom demand a very great deal?"

"It is more than ample." Dr Mallard admitted, as his brow creased in concern.

"We will find the money, we have to, it's Tony," Abby spoke up, her expression determined. "There is the money my parents left to me. I would gladly give that up for I have no wish for marry any man who would court me solely for my inheritance."

"I have some assets," The Lady added. "And my debt to Anthony is more significant than any gems."

"And I can liquidise my stocks and shares," Dr Mallard allowed. "They amount to no vast riches, but quite sufficient to make a contribution."

"I still have the money from Lord Bennington, for I have not needed to touch it at all." Timothy knew he would gladly part with everything he owned if only his last sight of Anthony were not to be that silent, blood soaked form in the carriage. "And I could sell my books."

"Don't concern yourselves over the money," Gibbs strode in. "Any of you, for that part is already taken care of and the very least of our worries."

"Gibbs," Abigail's eyes became very round. "Do you think they've hurt Tony as badly as they did the Marquis?"

Gibbs scowled a little at his own tactlessness, for despite his usual curt manner he was generally more careful in choosing his words where Abigail was concerned. The slip was, Timothy realised, a sure sign of the sharpness of his employer's own worry over his missing assistant.

"I am more afraid that Anthony will torture them with his endless theatrical anecdotes," Gibbs found a smile for her. "And having talked their ears off, lull them into a false sense of security with his charm so that when they are least expecting it, he may slit their throats with the knife I gave him."

"He would wouldn't he?" Abby railed bravely. "For there is nothing Tony would not do to make you proud."

"He always does." Gibbs assured her.

"Perhaps, you should tell him that," Timothy blurted, only to deeply regret his impulsiveness as several pairs of eyes swivelled in his direction. Still, if he could not be enough to prevent Anthony being taken then he owed him this show of courage at least. "He thinks that nobody would value him sufficiently to pay any ransom."

"He actually said that?" Abby's lip quivered. "But he knows that he is like family to us, How could he think that?"

"Now Abigail," Dr Mallard interjected. "Remember, how we have discussed this? It is hardly Anthony's fault that the world at large has convinced him that he lacks worth. Nor that his understanding of family is somewhat limited. All we can do is try to redress the balance."

"When I find these men it will be my great pleasure to slit their throats." The Lady vowed darkly.

"_After_, I have finished with them." Gibbs' expression was truly dangerous.

"I am deeply sorry sir," The depth of feeling in Gibbs' expression gave Timothy the courage to own what he had been too anxious to admit when he had finally dragged himself home. "Anthony has already bled for me and killed on my behalf and I would gladly have returned that favour even to the cost of my own life if I could have found any way to do so."

"I know that McGee and so does Anthony. He will bear you no malice," Gibbs expression darkened with an emotion Timothy could not quite read. "For if either of you were to be taken it was always going to be Anthony."

McGee blinked as a preposterous idea occurred to him. For surely not even the mad Mr Anthony would be foolhardy enough to deliberately set himself up as bait to entice their quarry? And yet between the set of Gibbs' jaw and Dr Mallard's concern that Anthony did not hold himself in the same level of esteem as his friends did, it seemed entirely too plausible.

"Does he not realise that there are those who will be sorely aggrieved if any harm should befall him?" Timothy demanded forcefully, feeling almost angry at his friend, although for what he was not entirely sure. "Even if his own people will not own him .."

"We are his people, McGee," Gibbs interrupted. "And we will not rest until he is safely home."

"Did the Marquis tell you anything we might use to our advantage?" Dr Mallard wondered.

"No," Gibbs' jaw tightened in displeasure. "For he was for the most part unconscious and neither of the two remaining kidnappers ever unmasked in his presence."

"And they have also profited from the lesson of the last occasion and given us no time at all to concoct any sort of plan," Dr Mallard observed. "For the ransom must be delivered within the hour."

"Then, I should go and change," Mindful of his various scrapes and bruises, Timothy rose carefully out of the armchair. "For I cannot play the part of Anthony's manservant in a torn shirt and trousers all over with mud. He most assuredly would never let me hear the end of it."

"McGee." Gibbs' frown as he looked him up and down spoke volumes.

"I assure you, sir that I am more than equal for the task," Timothy attempted to head off any censure, both wanting to do justice to his friend and feeling emboldened by Anthony's own example in remonstrating with Gibbs. "And the kidnapers will be expecting me besides."

"It is true that any deviation from the plan might unnerve our assailants." The Lady added her support.

"I'm aware of that." Gibbs scowled.

His expression plainly said that he had already allowed one assistant to fall into the hands of these monsters, he wasn't about to facilitate another slipping through his grasp.

"Sir," McGee bit his lip, as he strove to find the words to convince his employer. "I assure you I am fit enough to be no inconvenience to you and we both know that if I one in peril Anthony would do nothing less."

"_Is there no faster way to accomplish entry?"Timothy hissed, as Anthony worked to pick the fourth of five locks. Bad enough that they were standing here in biting wind and driving rain, but there was the threat of discovery besides. Which given they were trying to access a Magistrate's abode was not remotely advisable. "For I am not sure which prospect fills me with greater dread. Gibbs' likely reaction if we were so careless as to land ourselves in gaol or Inspector Fornell's great amusement at our predicament."_

"_Well," Anthony grunted slightly, as he struggled to turn the mechanism. "I suppose I could throw a rock through the glass and simply open the door from the inside. But I rather think that might attract entirely the wrong sort of attention. Don't you?"_

"_Um," Timothy straightened up. "I rather fear it might be too late to worry about attracting unwanted attention."_

_Alerted by his tone, Anthony turned around to see five heavyset men advancing upon them with a motley assortment of makeshift weapons in their hands and menace in their eyes. The two friends exchanged a glance and for a moment, Timothy feared that Anthony was indeed mad enough to see those odds as a fair fight, for all Gibbs would frown over his bruises. _

"_Run?" He prompted._

"_Run." With perhaps a thought for his companion's welfare, Anthony blessedly agreed._

_And so they ran, with their assailants always in close pursuit, through alleyways and under bridges, up staircases and along rooftops, until all of a sudden they came to the end of the terrace and the ground ran out under their feet._

"_Jump." Anthony instructed._

_Timothy swallowed hard. The gap between the buildings was no more than a couple of feet. Easily, what a man might accomplish with a broad stride and a bit of a run up, But it was the drop below which captured all his attention. Fully four stories high. So much so that he could not even imagine approaching the edge._

"_I cannot." He baulked._

"_McGee, they are almost upon us," Anthony insisted. "Now for pity's sake will you jump?"_

" _I'm afraid of heights." He admitted._

"_What?" Anthony shot him a look of incredulity. "Oh dear Lord, you are perfectly serious. Did it not occur to you to mention this before we ended up on the rooftop?"_

"_I was following you and running for my life besides," Timothy defended his actions, all too aware that their pursuers were now mere feet away. "You go on, for there is no sense in us both paying for my failing." _

"_Don't be ridiculous, McGee." Anthony rolled up his sleeves._

_Thanks to his recent tutelage at Gibbs' hands, McGee felt no small degree of satisfaction that he was able to dispatch two of their assailants and considered a black eye a small price to pay. For his part, Anthony saw off the other three, grinning wildly despite the blood pouring from his split lip and the blossoming lump on his temple. _

"_Will you tell Gibbs?" Timothy asked afterwards, dreading the thought of looking less than capable in the eyes of their employer. "That I cannot abide heights?"_

"_No," Anthony gave him a steady look. "But you will."_

_He nodded accepting that. This evening could easily not have ended as well as it did. In their line of business it did not do to keep such things to himself, for their lives were so unpredictable, one could never tell what might lead the entire company into peril._

"_I should have said something before," He offered by way of apology. _

"_Indeed, you should, for them I would have led us downwards instead of up and I would still be presentable enough to dine with Miss Penelope Henshaw," Anthony rubbed lightly at his temple, even as he saw to the heart of the matter. "Gibbs won't think any less of you for we have all have our bête noires even him. And a man is not defined by his fears, only by how he deals with them." _

"_Really?" Timothy felt sufficiently emboldened by Anthony's conciliatory manner to ask. "What's your bête noire?"_

"_Rats," Anthony scowled. "Although, if you should breathe a word about it to a living soul, I'll deny it."_

"Very well," Gibbs finally allowed, after some consideration. "You may deliver the ransom. But you eat first."

And so, in honour of Anthony, his bottomless stomach and his sage advice in advance of a fray, McGee excused Mrs Anderson and manned the stove himself to provide steak and eggs for the assembled company in the shape of the Lady, Dr Mallard, Miss Abigail and Gibbs. They ate heartily but in silence as the task ahead weighed upon each of them.

"Bring him home safely." Abby begged Gibbs as he prepared to depart.

"You may depend upon it," Gibbs vowed steadfastly.

"And Timothy," Abigail turned towards him. "Have a care, for none of us would forgive ourselves if anything happened to you either."

"Abigail," Dr Mallard prompted gently.

"But equally you mustn't take any risks Gibbs, for Tony would never forgive himself if anything happened to you." Abigail worried, as she turned back around.

"We should leave," The Lady pointed out, not without compassion.

"And Ziva," Abigail spun towards her "You must be safe also, for you are truly one of us and Anthony's steadfast friend besides."

And so the three of them took their departure, the Lady David settling herself into the cabriolet with such an air of normality that Timothy could almost believe that it was just a daily turn around the park. Despite the fact that Gibbs took the reins the ride was nothing that might attract any unwanted attention. Yet even so, they arrived both sooner than Timothy preferred focusing on his part in the matter and later than he would have liked thinking of the pain and suffering Anthony might be enduring.

None of them had asked how Gibbs had secured the considerable amount required for the ransom, for in the event none of their offers to contribute had been accepted or required. Taking the whole matter upon himself Gibbs had simply produced a portmanteau stuffed with the required funds, his expression firmly forbidding any questions about how it had been acquired. So, now Timothy went forth armed with both the bag and a degree of comfort in the certain knowledge that Ziva and Gibbs were close by.

And then he waited.

And waited

Until it gradually dawned upon them all, that the ransom demand not withstanding, the kidnappers were not coming. And all they were left with was a bag full of money and no sign or indication whether Anthony was alive or dead. Plus the realisation that somebody would have to be the one to tell Abigail that they would not be bringing Anthony safely home tonight.


	7. Chapter 7

Timothy had thought that Anthony being kidnapped was the worst possible thing, the scent of his blood lingering in his memory and the sight of his seemingly lifeless body irreparably burnt into his brain. And yet this _nothing_ had proved utterly unbearable. The tautness of Gibbs' expression, the burning fury in the Lady's eyes, Abby's devastation when they returned home without him and the carefully expressionless look Dr Mallard's face which betrayed his deepest fear, that the irreplaceable Mr Anthony might very well be gone forever.

"Why would they not come?" McGee found the courage to enquire of Dr Mallard, as they were making up a tray of tea in the kitchen, the question he not had the heart to ask Gibbs when the man's jaw was constantly clenched so tight Timothy feared he might break a tooth. "We had the money ready."

"I confess, I do not know," Dr Mallard admitted, as he tended to the kettle. "All of the other victims were returned, albeit somewhat the worse for wear, on presentation of the ransom. I can only imagine that somehow the kidnappers deduced Anthony's connection to Gibbs and thus were too afraid to make the rendezvous."

"But surely, they would not therefore dare to see him come to harm?" Timothy clung to hope. He knew without asking that Dr Mallard had quietly checked every Hospital and Mortuary in the immediate area and was grateful for his silence on the matter.

"Not if they know Gibbs' reputation and have the slightest care for their own safety," Dr Mallard nodded. "For his wrath on discovering that Anthony has been taken from him, will pale in comparison to his vengeance if the poor boy is utterly lost to us all."

"I have never seen him like this," Timothy ventured, busying himself with spooning tea into the pot, so as to have a ready excuse not to meet the other man's eyes. "If only Anthony were here, he would be gratified to realise that Gibbs cares so deeply for him."

The old fashioned look that Dr Mallard gave him, suggested that he hadn't quite managed the air of innocence that he had been aiming for. For both men clearly understood that Gibbs held Anthony in far greater esteem than was customary for a mere assistant. And also that Anthony seemed so oblivious of the fondness with which family traditionally regarded one other that he often missed any but the most obvious signs of affection.

"Perhaps, he needs a friend to be of help him in that regard." Dr Mallard raised a brow.

"I would be glad of the opportunity to try," Timothy sighed. For what had previously seemed a topic beyond the bounds of propriety, now seemed nothing more than a simple kindness to a friend in need. "He has been sorely missed."

Indeed, as soon as it was known about town that it was Mr Anthony who had been taken people had begun to stop them in the street, or engineer some sort of private rendezvous. Ordinary men and women, with the ink stained fingers of clerks, or calloused hands of scullery maids, prosperous merchants and industrious seamstresses, even a handful of quality, who had once benefitted from the assistance of Mr Gibbs and Mr Anthony saw an opportunity to repay their debt with any assistance they might offer. It seemed, the kidnappers threats not withstanding, that for every villain who might rejoice at Anthony's demise, there were a dozen honest folk who remembered his timely assistance and had a care for his welfare.

"The word is the young nobleman taken outside Mrs Farrington's the other night called himself Anthony Sheppard which perplexed the kidnappers beyond measure," The doorman at the Adelphi revealed. "For I expect they are not as often at the theatre as Mr Anthony and therefore have never heard of Jack Sheppard and knew not how to react."

"A man with dark hair and a deep scar on his left cheek has been asking questions about a man of quality called Anthony Sheppard and who might own him as his heir," A young woman wearing entirely too much rouge revealed. "None of the girls would speak, for either they did not make the connection and therefore knew not what to say, or they did and therefore could not say for Mr Anthony never talks of any kin beyond his obligation to you."

"I've no doubt they took him for the son of a Duke or an Earl," Anthony's tailor wrung his handkerchief between his hands in his anxiety. "For despite his curious ways, Mr Anthony has the manners of a gentleman and the tastes of a man raised to prefer silk."

"They ain't from London and that's a fact," A cab driver pointed out. "For any local man would know right well the dangers of taking on Mr Anthony and his close connection to you, Mr Gibbs."

"It could simply be an act of revenge," The Lady pointed out to Gibbs during a slight lull in these proceedings. "Somebody who recognised your part in the rescue of the Marquis and realised the taking of Anthony would be the sharpest of blows."

"I had thought of that," Timothy noticed Gibbs did not scruple to correct her assessment of Anthony's importance to him. "But there is nothing in the ransom letter to suggest they knew who Anthony was, nor anything more than having lost their chance with the Marquis they were seeking more funds and he was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

When Inspector Fornell arrived unannounced just as dusk began to fall, they feared the very worst of news. For his countenance was so grave, declining the least part of hospitality, it was instantly clear it was not a social visit. Timothy felt ice cold dread flood his entire body, Dr Mallard visibly paled, The Lady drew herself up to her full height, as if that very action could act as a defence against unwelcome news, Abigail looked positively tearful and although Gibbs expression was set in stone, his eyes were anguished.

"It's not Anthony," The Inspector was quick to reassure. "But we did find a body. It washed up on the banks of the Thames this morning."

"If the body isn't Anthony's why are you here?" Gibbs demanded curtly.

"Because, I recognised the knife sticking out of his chest," Fornell raised a brow, as he produced a familiar object. "It belongs to you."

"It _belonged _to me," Gibbs corrected, as he accepted the blade and turned it thoughtfully over in his hands. "I gave it to Anthony after he lost his own in pursuit of our quarry."

"Does this mean Anthony's alive?" Timothy's heart leapt with hope.

His imagination was already racing ahead, envisaging Anthony overpowering his dark haired captor and affecting his escape just as Gibbs had originally suggested to Abigail. No doubt to return and regal them all with tales of his daring for days to come. And yet logic argued that Anthony should have been able to find his way back home long before Fornell's men had been able to locate the body and tell them all of its existence.

"What did this man look like?" Gibbs' question cut to the heart of the matter.

"He was blond, about 5 feet 7, and as well as the knife wound to the heart there was another older wound to his shoulder. Also, his hands and fingernails were stained with some kind of red dye." Fornell supplied.

"The other kidnapper, the one with the scarf," Timothy realised. "It can only be, the one Anthony winged with his knife and the dye, also, for he must have opened the bag."

"The most pertinent question is, whether Anthony was the one to kill him, or if his demise was the result of an altercation between our two kidnappers." Dr Mallard frowned. "Since, there is clearly little honour between these particular thieves."

"If Anthony was indeed the one to kill him is there any particular reason that he might not have returned home?" Inspector Fornell asked.

"Only if he were not able," Gibbs visibly bristled at the mere suggestion of some rift between him and Anthony. "And there is still the dark haired man with the scar who has been asking questions about Anthony unaccounted for. Or had you forgotten about that, Fornell?"

"Not for a moment," The Inspector gave no ground. "Rest assured, I have my very best men working on Anthony's disappearance. Although, you should look carefully to your part in the matter, for I know Anthony will not thank you, if he returns home just in time to attend your funeral or worse see you sentenced to hang."

Timothy might have been taken aback by the stark warning. If he had not already seen the way his employer would act with such scant regard to his own safety, in the pursuit of justice for their clients. Indeed, Anthony had frequently been bold enough to take Gibbs to task for his tendency to put himself needlessly in the line of fire.

_Timothy didn't know which part of the evening had been more terrifying. The cold fear when they realised Gibbs had left the company, the discovery that Anthony could drive just as fast as their employer when he had a mind too, the heart stopping moment, as they saw Gibbs bound hand and foot thrown helpless of f the high stone bridge into the fast moving water far below, the vision of Anthony removing neither shoes nor coat as he dove in after him and they both disappeared into the churning foam or witnessing the full force of Anthony's wrath at such close quarters._

"_Pray tell me sir," Freshly changed into dry attire, his face white with rage, Anthony paced up and down in front of the parlour fire, while Gibbs sat, wrapped in an tartan dressing gown which had been a present from Abby, "What were you thinking to go off alone after Wallace and his brigands, without a word to either of us?"_

"_The matter was my responsibility," Gibbs responded calmly. "There was no cause to involve either of you."_

"_No cause?" Anthony stopped dead and turned on his heel to give Gibbs the full benefit of his incredulity. "And if I had not have cause to come to your aid? How then might the matter have ended?"_

_Gibbs pressed his lips together and looked away, his very silence speaking volumes, for Wallace had been more ruthless than they had at first suspected and the network upon which he could call considerably more extensive. Timothy realised that the fact that he did not take Anthony to task for his impudence was as close to an admission that he was in the wrong as Gibbs would allow. Certainly his lack of any defence was sufficient to cool much of Anthony's ire, for all of a sudden he sank into the second armchair, like a marionette whose strings had been abruptly cut, and regarded their employer with a plaintive look._

"_I sincerely wish that you would not do such things, sir. For truly my heart cannot stand it and my wardrobe must always suffer besides."_

"_I will replenish your wardrobe," Gibbs assured him, before offering the aggrieved young man a fond smile. "And perhaps that new silk topper you have set your heart upon besides."_

"_Truly? Anthony's eyes widened, for that hat was of the highest quality and priced accordingly. Then he shook his head. "I'm grateful, sir. But there is no need. For I would happily live in rags if I may simply continue in your service, which you must admit would be interminably hard to do if you were no longer of this world."_

_Nothing more had been said on the matter. But the following day a number of boxes had arrived addressed to Mr Anthony. And chief among the wealth of riches, from new leather shoes to a smart velvet waistcoat, was the much converted top hat._

"Are you quite sure that the good Inspector doesn't have something of a point?" Dr Mallard asked as soon as Fornell had made his farewells. "For we both know that Anthony has run further and faster than this when the situation has warranted it."

"Never from me," Gibbs simply brushed that idea aside, as he rose to his feet, ready to venture abroad yet again, in his tireless search to return Anthony to the fold. "McGee, tell Mrs Anderson, I won't be in for dinner."

"And that will be the third night in a row you have missed dinner," Dr Mallard rebuked. "And you will be no use to Anthony when he does return home if you are too weak from lack of nourishment to tend to his needs."

"I've eaten."

Timothy had no doubt that was true for Gibbs was a man who saw food as fuel rather than a pleasure at the best of times. No doubt he had choked down a few slices of cold meat or such from the pantry to keep body and soul together. But the very idea that he might sit down to a snowy white tablecloth set with silverware and crystal glass when Anthony was somewhere out there suffering was completely unacceptable.

"And will the Lady be accompanying you, sir?" Timothy spoke up.

"She is otherwise engaged," Gibbs was already half way to the stairs.

"Then, pray sir, permit me to accompany you, for our quarry has already proved himself to be utterly ruthless."

The words were out of his mouth before he had even considered them. Or indeed quite whom he was offering to protect. And yet even when both Dr Mallard and Gibbs turned to look at him, he stood his ground. He knew Anthony would never forgive himself if anything were to happen to Gibbs when he was not around to watch over him.

"I've already misplaced one assistant McGee I have no wish to lose another."

Gibbs words were neither refusal, nor quite yet acceptance, more an invitation to prove his worth. Taking a deep breath, Timothy remembered Anthony's words of advice, when he had doubted his own ability.

"The villains don't know I have never killed a man, sir. They don't even know that I might not kill them even if I do shoot at them. So, all I need to do is look like I think I can kill them and that will suffice for the time being."

For a long moment, there was silence in the room as Gibbs and Dr Mallard looked at him and then each other, then Gibbs lips quirked in a smile.

"Then you had best fetch your coat, McGee."


	8. Chapter 8

Not wanting to waste time in preparing their own horses, Gibbs had to tip the cabbie generously to even bring them to this part of town. Timothy could hardly blame the driver. The stench of rotting vegetables and stale urine hit Timothy's nostrils as soon as they stepped out into the cold and wet of a typical London winter's night. Predictably, Gibbs strode off through the freezing, weather and shallow pools of stagnant water, without the least sign of discomfort, as assuredly as if he was striding down the middle of the fashionable Strand rather than the dark underbelly of urban London.

He hunched his shoulders slightly and lifted his collar against the biting wind as he hurried to catch up with his employer as all around him the soft sounds of the destitute and homeless, snuffled, swore, shouted and fought one another. As he took in the pitiful figures huddled in archways and doorways, as Gibbs spoke a word here or exchanged a coin there for any hint of Anthony's present whereabouts he could not help but count his blessings and feel grateful for the warmth and fellowship of Gibbs' home.

With a pang of empathy, Timothy realised this was what Gibbs had been doing every night, eschewing the comfort of his own hearth, since Anthony had been taken from them.

"Mr Gibbs, sir?" A young blonde woman stepped forward from the shadows. "Might I have a moment of your time, tis a matter of some importance regarding Mr Anthony?"

"What of him, Sarah?" Gibbs asked kindly.

Timothy never ceased to be amazed at just how many people from all stations in life Gibbs knew by name, nor just how wide his connections and reputation reached.

"There's a man, lodging at the George and Dragon, with dark hair and a scar to his cheek," Sarah was saying. "Just now he offered me more than a week of wages at the factory to lie with him. But I told him no, in part because I could not bear his foul breath and cruel manner, but also because I recognised the coat he wore as belonging to Mr Antony when he was kind to me and he was wearing Mr Anthony's leather shoes with the silver buckles besides."

"Thank you, Sarah." Gibbs' took her hand and pressed some money into it.

"It is I who should be thanking you sir," Sarah shook her head. "For all that you and Mr Anthony did for me. After you got me way from that dreadful place the job at the factory gave me regular work. The days are long but the work far lighter than much other toil and now I can rent a room and have quite enough to eat besides and that is all thanks to Mr Anthony and his charming the overseer there not to concern himself about what I was or where I came from. For Mr Anthony may not have any money or title but he is a true gentleman, so he is."

"I pray sir," McGee murmured as they made all haste to the George and Dragon around the corner, "Do not tell Anthony that it was all thanks to a pretty girl and his charm, rather than our best endeavours, which led to his rescue for he will be insufferable."

He hoped to lift Gibbs' grim mood, as he had several times previously seen Anthony endeavour to do. And he counted the way in which his new employer's lips quirked slightly something of a victory in the circumstances and not at all bad for a first attempt.

"He will be insufferable anyway, McGee," Gibbs allowed fondly. "For he has neither the patience for being in an invalid state, nor the least willingness to be cosseted, so we must all bear with him as best we can. "

"Really?" Timothy blinked in some surprise, for in his estimation there was nothing Anthony loved more than being the centre of attention. He would have thought his friend would revel in being waiting upon hand and foot as he issued ever more outrageous orders from his sickbed. "I would not have imagined .."

Gibbs gave him a look of understanding, although his words were less than enlightening.

"It's complicated." His explanation was no explanation at all. "Just be his friend and don't allow him push you away."

Blinking the rain water out of his eyes as they steeped over the threshold of the George and Dragon, Timothy's heart leapt as he saw a dark haired man dressed in Anthony's good winter coat and fine leather shoes drinking at a far table. Feeling the utter fury at the loss of his friend build in his soul, he stepped forward, wanting nothing more than to profit from Gibbs lessons in the fine art of boxing and sink his fist deep into that smug expression until he heard the satisfying crunch of shattered cartilage and broken bone. Only to be stopped by Gibbs firm hand on his arm.

"Wait." The word was pure command.

Showing his truly dangerous side Gibbs bided his time, ordering them both a drink and acting as if nothing was at all amiss, until the man stepped out to use the jakes, only to place a knife at his throat just before he could attend to his business.

"Do you know who I am?"

"Should I?" The man scowled tightly feeling the cold steel at his throat. "For I am sure I have never made your acquaintance."

"I am your worst nightmare. Answer my next question to my satisfaction and I _ma_y not kill you," Gibbs teeth glittered in the darkness. "Where is Mr Anthony?"

"I don't know any Mr Anthony," The man denied. "Now let me lose for I need to .."

Gibbs wasn't remotely gentle as he pushed the man back against the brick wall and pressed his knife deep enough into his throat to cause a line of blood to trickle down his exposed throat and a thin stream of urine to puddle around his feet. And Timothy could not find it in himself to feel sorry about any of it.

"I'm telling you, I don't know anything about where your Mr Anthony is," The man insisted both angry and defensive.

"Lie to me a further time and I will have my assistant here shoot you where you stand," Gibbs advised coldly. "You are wearing Anthony's coat and shoes."

"I won them, in a prize fright," The man arrogantly raised his bruised knuckles for inspection. Timothy both marvelled at his courage in the face of Gibbs wrath and quailed at his cruel nature, for Anthony had been at this man's mercy all of this time. "And the shoes as well, and I didn't ask any questions, because every man needs a good coat and serviceable shoes in this foul weather."

"That's true enough," Gibbs smile tightened and Timothy knew he was thinking of Anthony, battered and bruised courtesy of those same damaged knuckles, out there somewhere in little more than his shirt and stocking feet, already weak from lack of food and drink, for they knew from experience the kidnappers did not scruple to care for their guests, and most likely blood loss as well. If his injuries didn't kill him, the night's bitter weather surely might. "I might even believe you, if I didn't know better."

Doubt flickered briefly through the man's eyes he looked down to the blade and back at Gibbs, before his confidence returned full force. Apparently, fully convinced that his reign of terror and intimidation among the general population was such that nobody would have dared talk about his antics and thus Gibbs could not possibly know anything of substance.

"You have mistaken me for somebody else, sir." He tried.

"You were asking around who knew Anthony Sheppard and who might own him as his heir?" Gibbs reminded him, almost conversationally, as he stepped in a little closer before his tone turned feral and he applied the knife with force. "Well,_ I_ will gladly own him. And you _are_ going to tell me where he is before we are done. McGee, shoot him in the shoulder just as he did Lord Travers heir."

"No," The man's eyes widened at the unmistakeable evidence that they did know something finally sunk in "Wait".

"Would you prefer a blow to the head such as the Earl of Northumberland's heir suffered?" Timothy stepped forward in his turn. "Or a blade across the ribs, such as you inflicted upon both Anthony and the Duke of Cumberland's heir? For Mr Gibbs has already given you one warning, which is rather more than you gave any of your victims, and he is not at all a man accustomed to asking twice."

"I will tell the law on you for such slander." The man tried to protest. "For you have no evidence for my part in any of this."

"Attempt it," Gibbs snarled, as he curled his free hand around the man's bare throat restricting his air, even as he lifted him right up onto his toes. "And I will gladly cut _out_ your tongue. For you tried to put a price on that which to me is irreplaceable and either by the law or some other way I will have satisfaction for that."

"We had thought him some Lord's son or other for he associated with all the right people and bragged of just coming into his inheritance." The man protested from his position of total vulnerability. "I was against such an impetuous plan but Morris had gambling debts to pay and since all our efforts had come to naught with the Marquis we were sorely lacking in funds."

"He bragged of an inheritance?" Gibbs frowned.

"At least six thousand a year," The man scowled. "But when I went abroad to make enquires I quickly found Anthony Shepherd wasn't the sort anyone would exchange for any ransom. Mr Gibbs' dog they called him. On my return it was to find the dog had teeth for he had somehow got himself free of his bonds and killed besides Morris only to pass out cold on the wharf. So, I stripped him of coat and shoes and went on my way. And that's the plain truth of it."

"And you just_ left_ him there to die?" Timothy blurted, horrified by such callousness. For if the blood loss did not kill his friend the cold most certainly would.

"I am no murderer, sir," The man dripped with insincerity. "For he was quite alive when I last saw him."

Gibbs action was so swift, McGee saw only the blur of the blade and heard the man's hoarse cry as it sliced across his ribs, exact twin to the cut he had described inflicted upon Anthony. In the moonlight McGee saw his eyes and teeth glint as he pulled back his lips in a snarl.

"Either you take me to him, or I will gut you where you stand." He snarled.

"Nobody was supposed to miss him," The man protested even as his legs buckled beneath him, in fear of the man's most obvious fury, so that Gibbs hand on his throat was now the only thing holding him up. "Much less come looking for the likes of him, for it turned out he was quite without any rank or fortune."

"And there was your mistake from the very start," Gibbs advised. "For you believed everything to be about money and appearances. When a good man will do whatever is required for family."

Timothy's respect for Inspector Fornell increased considerably when he responded to their summons without question and instructed his men to take custody of the kidnapper Thomas Gibson not passing a single comment on the blood staining his shirt front. It was both a measure of the trust between himself and Gibbs and justice of a sort, Timothy supposed, for they all knew that Anthony would not wish has name, (such as it was), dragged through the courts. Although, was not at all convinced that even the full measure of the law would satisfy Gibbs if they did not find Anthony alive.

Timothy pressed his lips together, his anxiety building as they all followed Thomas Gibson's lead through the increasingly dank, dark, streets to a small deserted wharf on the far banks of the Thames. In this area the smell of the dye vats, tanning sheds and butcher's yards and their refuge polluted the air. The piles of rubbish filled the streets and clusters of rats ran along the beams and across their path. Timothy shivered involuntarily, only in part due to the bitter cold and driving rain, as he thought of his friend imprisoned somewhere here.

"Anthony is correct," Gibbs surprised him by being the one to break the silence between them. "You _do_ think uncommonly loudly."

"You knew the kidnapper was lying, when he said he had left Anthony unharmed upon the quayside."

"Is that a question, McGee?" Gibbs arched a brow.

"No," Timothy shook his head, having gradually become accustomed to Gibbs' tutelage he recognised the challenge to explain his reasoning. "You were certain he still had Anthony in his power, even though we had no evidence."

"I wouldn't say that." Gibbs corrected mildly.

"We had some indications," Timothy ducked his head in acknowledgement. "We had the body of the second kidnapper, Morris, stone cold dead and Anthony's knife in him which proves he made some attempt at escape. And we had Gibson wearing Anthony's good coat and shoes, which he would never have given up without a fight. Yet the kidnapper has no marks on his arms or face, which suggests that Anthony was either bound or unconscious when they were taken. Also, both the kidnapper has been clever and careful throughout until they became desperate which suggests they wouldn't want to leave any lose ends who might identify them later or even worse be able to seek revenge."

"All true." Gibbs agreed evenly.

"And none of it what you meant at all," Timothy scowled a little for he was used to being able to puzzle things out and he could think of no other piece of evidence or logic which might explain Gibbs immoveable faith.

"Oh." He realised belatedly. For, of course, it was not logic at all.

"If Anthony were free to do so he would first and above all return home," Gibbs stated with utter conviction. "Also, Anthony never bragged of any inheritance. For that would attract entirely the wrong sort of attention. Whatever their reason for taking him it was not that."

Still following Fornell and his men, escorting Gibson they crossed over a narrow gangplank onto a half rotting barge. Once on deck the policemen at their captive's direction begun to move a stack of barrels. When a trap door was revealed in the wooden floor Timothy felt quite sick to think his friend had been forced into the dark and cold of the hold below and left to die. As soon as the door was opened the stench which rose out had several of Fornell's men reaching for their handkerchiefs. Gibbs didn't even seem to notice as he leant over the opening and looked down into the abyss.

"Sir?" Timothy prompted, when nothing was forthcoming.

In answer, Gibbs simply disappeared into the hole, to the unexpected sound of splashing water. Frowning, Inspector Fornell peered over the edge in his turn. He looked up at their kidnapper, just as Dr Mallard hurried across the gangplank.

"Timothy, my dear boy, I got your message and came with all possible speed. Oh dear Lord that tiny space is altogether too much like the prisons used in medieval times. Some poor unfortunate would be placed in such a hole, and woe betide if he didn't quite fit for they thought nothing of removing an arm or a leg to accommodate that and then the poor soul simply left to his fate. Don't tell me that is where Anthony has been suffering?"

"Was." Gibbs agreed, puling himself up out of the hole, his hair wet and flattened against his skull and every inch of him soaked to the skin. "Not any longer."

"He's dead?" Timothy paled.

"Now Timothy," Dr Mallard swallowed hard. "We must take some small comfort in that fact that Anthony's suffering is over," He favoured Gibbs with a hard look. "Although, I do think the news could have been broken rather more tactfully."

"He's not dead," Gibbs corrected, as he pulled himself out onto the deck. "He's long gone. See for yourself."

And it was true. For somehow a few warped and softened planks had been prised away from the old barge's disintegrating hull, making a space just large enough for some water to flood in and an average sized man to pass through.

"Anthony is nothing if not resourceful." Dr Mallard beamed with evident relief.

"I can spare you a few men to aid in the search," Inspector Fornell offered.

"No need," Gibbs shook his head. "You'll take care of things here?"

"Indeed, for Gibson's own testimony should be enough to take care of matters for the moment. Although, when all this is settled I will have further questions for you," Fornell warned. "And Anthony as well just soon as he is fit enough to bear them."

"Not Anthony," Gibbs vetoed that. "You already have Gibson's confession and Lord Morrow's heir stands ready to give testimony if required, for he has his father's sense of justice and duty. That will more than suffice for your superiors."

"Gibbs," Inspector Fornell paused, at the other man's near murderous expression, but to Timothy's surprise he was not completely silenced by it. "Anthony may not wish to press charges, but he will need to talk about his ordeal."

"I know." Gibbs' tone brooked no further discussion.

The arrangement was made that Dr Mallard would take his carriage and meet them at home. Following in Gibbs's footsteps Timothy marvelled at the way his employer utterly ignored his already sodden state and moved with all haste, tracking Anthony's most likely route towards home, once he had swam along the Quayside, down alleyways and across bridges. And all the while the biting wind cut through his warm outer garments him and the driving rain almost blinded him as it ran down his face. He could only imagine how much worse it must be for Anthony in his weakened state. It wasn't until Gibbs started running that he realised that shapeless mound just up ahead wasn't some pile of discarded rubbish.

It was Anthony.


	9. Chapter 9

AN - Apologies for the long delay. Work was unbelievably manic. But I am now on vacation so can promise a gallop to the finish (honestly). Daily updates from now on.

* * *

><p>By the time Timothy reached the pair of them, Gibbs was kneeling down on the cobbles, oblivious to the filth and wet all around as he gently cradled Antony's head in his lap, his fingers searching urgently for a pulse in his assistant's neck.<p>

"Is he still alive?" Timothy asked his heart in his throat.

The glow of the nearby street lamps was just enough to see his friend's gaunt and pale features, with deep shadows under his eyes and dark bruises marking his jaw. His once smart evening clothes were now torn and stiff with blood and who knew what else, scant protection from the driving rain and bitter cold. Even his good woollen stockings were missing and his bare feet cut, bruised and streaked with dirt, but his hands were truly the worst of it, every single nail being bruised, ragged, bloodied and torn.

"Barely," Gibbs' grim expression was at odds with the gentle hand he moved to place across Anthony's forehead. "He is burning up with fever."

"I will fetch Dr Mallard," McGee declared. "And ask him to bring the carriage around."

"No, that will take too long," Gibbs ran swift hands down Anthony's torso and limbs, checking for injury and apparently satisfied he rose to his feet. "Take his left side."

So between them Timothy and Gibbs helped Anthony towards home and upstairs to his own bedroom. With an unexpected degree of tenderness Gibbs carefully stripped off the wet and filthy shirt. Timothy swallowed hard at the sight of Anthony's torso caked with filth and mottled with deep cuts and dark bruises, red raw bands around each wrist where he had struggled with his bonds, evidence without need of words that he had fought his captors and fought hard. Although, for some ridiculous reason it was the sight of Anthony's hair, usually so well coiffured, lank and stiff with dirt, that brought a lump almost sufficient to choke him to his throat.

"Oh my," Dr Mallard exclaimed as he approached the bedside. "Our poor dear boy has indeed been in the wars."

For his part, Timothy was glad that Ducky had seconded his request that the ladies should wait downstairs in the parlour. For Anthony looked far too close to death for _his_ comfort. A poorly healed and badly infected knife wound, edged with livid red, the most obvious cause of his fever. As Dr Mallard began to catalogue Anthony's injuries, without the least reaction from his patient, it felt all too much like the good Doctor was talking to one of his corpses.

"Dear Lord, is that a boot print on his back?" Dr Mallard was taken aback.

"Gibson didn't just strip him of his coat, shoes and stockings he also kicked him when he was down." McGee realised, his anger rising as he thought of his friend being mistreated in that way.

"McGee," Gibbs didn't lift his eyes from the unmoving body of his assistant. "Bring in the tin bath and help Miss Dawes boil sufficient kettles. The water needs to be as hot as a body can stand to sweat the fever from him."

"Yes sir,"

Grateful for something to actually do, McGee fetched the bath from the scullery and placed it on the rug in front of Anthony's hearth, which both hope and determination had kept burning all these long days whilst he had been missing. Then Timothy carried boiling kettle after kettle up the stairs, as Anthony was made ready for his bath. When Gibbs gave a low growl in his throat, Timothy looked up. His employer was standing by Anthony's bed, his hands clenched into fists and his jaw tight.

"Is that a _bite_?" McGee shuddered, at a livid red mark revealed on Anthony's bare calf. "Dear Lord, his legs are covered in them."

"Rats." Gibbs bit off the word.

"Oh," McGee recognised hollowly.

"He told you about that?" Gibbs looked surprised.

"His discomfort regarding the matter," McGee admitted, sensing that there was a deeper story he was unaware of. "Not the cause of it."

Between them they carried Anthony to the waiting bath, as gently as a new born babe. McGee and Dr Mallard did their part in holding Anthony upright as Gibbs took care of washing his hair and most of his body. Then they dried him off before carrying him back to the bed. Still mostly senseless, Anthony nonetheless let a pained moan escape his lips, flinching back from Dr Mallard's careful touch as he set about cleaned the infected wounds, his hands especially salved in cream and gently wrapped in bandages. And at last, he was dressed in a soft cotton nightshirt and tucked securely under a mound of blankets.

"Duck?"

Gibbs frowned, his tone sharp with worry, as Dr Mallard placed a stack of pillows behind his patient, so that Anthony was almost sat up in bed.

"Just a precaution," Dr Mallard reassured. "I don't like the sound of his chest and this will ease his breathing."

"Will he recover?" Timothy wondered aloud.

"He'll be fine," Gibbs retorted before Dr Mallard could form a response. "Or he will answer to me."

And that was surprisingly reassuring. For Anthony would surely not dare to die until Gibbs gave his permission and Timothy could not see that happening any time soon. Realising that there was no way Gibbs would leave Anthony's bedside until he was out of danger, Timothy took it upon himself to descend to the parlour and reassure the ladies that Anthony was as well as could be expected in the circumstances and the kidnappers now all accounted for besides.

Having done all he could Dr Mallard took his leave, promising to return in the morning to check on his patient. Before they went, Abigail and Ziva, holding hands tightly together, came up to see Anthony lying in bed his face, as pale as his white cotton pillow, to reassure themselves that he was alive and would again be well if Gibbs had any say in the matter, Abby dropping a soft kiss on his forehead and Ziva squeezing his hand with a tortured look on her face.

Left alone with Gibbs, Timothy hesitated, wanting to be of assistance, but unsure what to do.

"Anthony," Gibbs spoke directly to his assistant for the first time since he was recovered. "Look at me."

It was more instruction than invitation and yet lying there half dead it seemed impossible that Anthony might rouse himself sufficiently to obey. Timothy held his breath as Gibbs reached into his jacket and pulled out a silver hip flask, unscrewing the top and using one hand to gently cup his assistant's head, lifting it up a little, before pressing the flask to Anthony's lips and letting some of the liquid within trickle between. It must have been a strong spirit indeed, if the way Anthony's body arched and coughed was any indication.

"Tony," Gibbs insisted, tucking the flask away and using his open palm to give the gentlest of taps to the sweat soaked forehead. "Open your eyes."

There was a long, agonising moment, before Anthony's eyes flicked open, their usual bright green dulled with sickness and confusion. It took him a moment to recognise his surroundings, before his gaze latched onto Gibbs like a compass seeking north and he raised a bandaged hand to clutch weakly at his employers arm. Still somewhat disorientated, his gaze passed over the room and settled on Timothy.

"It is no more than I deserve, I suppose," He coughed, a painful, wet hacking sound, before continuing, not without some difficultly. "But after everything I have tried to teach you, it is a particularly cruel kind of torture that you would haunt me in a waistcoat which does not match your cravat."

"At a time like this you think I should care about fashion?" Timothy began, before he realised exactly what Anthony had said. "Did you say _haunt_?"

"That is what ghosts do, is it not?" Anthony swallowed hard and closed his eyes, speaking again without opening them, the effort required writ large across his features and clearly taking its toll. "And you are surely dead, for they threw you from a moving carriage and those cobbles will smash a man's head to pieces in an instant. And you have been haunting me ever since. Although, never in quite such a dreadfully unfashionable array."

Even in these circumstances, McGee felt a little wounded by the insult to his taste in clothes, although the slight quirk to Gibbs' lips was a sure sign that he would get no sympathy from that quarter.

"Tony," Gibbs spoke levelly. "McGee isn't dead."

Anthony opened his eyes and turned his unfocused gaze back towards his employer. If anything his expression grew even more distressed.

"Indeed, you are mistaken, sir. And I am truly sorry for it as now his parents will mourn and his sister will weep bitter tears and rightly so, for he was a good man. One of the best I have ever met, whereas, my demise would most certainly have been the cause for celebration in several quarters. If you recall I always said I would prove to be a bitter disappointment to you but you would not listen and now it has come to pass. So, now that I have said what I must, I shall be on my way and never presume to darken your door again."

And incredibly, with those words, and apparently by sheer force of will alone, for his body could have no strength remaining, Anthony endeavoured to sit himself upright and swing his feet around onto the floor. Only to find his movements easily halted by Gibbs' gentle hand on his shoulder, easing him back down onto the pillows.

"Anthony," Gibbs sighed. "McGee is assuredly not dead and you and I will have this conversation again when I think you might actually recall it."

"Oh Lord sir," Anthony pressed himself back into the pillows, closing his eyes again, his face twisting with distress, as his movements had awakened all his aches and pains. "My head feels like it's about to explode and there are rats, all around which is torture of the worst sort, for I cannot escape them and you know how I cannot abide rats."

"I know," Gibbs agreed kindly. "But you need to open your eyes for there are no rats here."

"My father was right," Eyes still tightly shut and lost in his fever Anthony roundly berated himself. "I _do_ belong in the gutter, for I am reliably informed that I am worth nobody's fortune and a constant disappointment besides. And you should go and swiftly sir, for _he_ will be most displeased to find you here and I would not have you suffer for what are surely my transgressions."

Anthony could not see they way his words made Gibbs expression darken with fury, his jaw clenched as tight as McGee had ever seen it, even as he laid a gentle hand upon his assistant's fevered brow.

"And I have told you before. I will _not _desert you and if_ he_ ever thinks of laying another hand upon you, _he_ must first go through me."

"You should not underestimate him, sir," Anthony finally opened his eyes as he was moved to remonstrate with his employer. "For he has already been the ruin of several good men whose only fault was their loyalty to me and I would not have him be the cause of your ruin also, for you have already better far better than I deserve."

"As you well know I have already been quite as ruined as any man might find himself to be," Gibbs responded, holding his assistant's gaze as his hand moved to stroke Anthony's hair fondly. "And you are assuredly worth the effort besides."

"Oh sir," Tony's voice hitched raggedly, even as he turned his head into that gentle touch. "You will most certainly be the death of _me_. For you are well aware that any such kindness cuts me to the quick more effectively than any whip."

"It is my own brand of charm." Gibbs allowed dryly.

The sound that issued from Anthony was half laugh and half sob, which Gibbs evidently took as his signal to wrap an arm around his shaking shoulders. For his part, Anthony simply buried his face in Gibbs' shoulder and clung tightly to his lapel as he strove to even out his breathing. Shifting uncertainly from foot to foot, Timothy was unsure where to look.

"Do not concern yourself, McGee," Gibbs spared him a glance. "No doubt he will remember little or nothing of this once he is himself again."

Timothy supposed he should be gratified that Gibbs had done him the courtesy of not telling him that it was merely the fever talking. For it was plainly obvious, that Anthony had been trapped in his own dark memories. Even so, the words were scant comfort, for he doubted _he_ could forget the image of a much more vulnerable seeming Anthony reliving his terrors. Nor the idea that the simplest of human kindness might be more feared than the greatest of wrath.

"McGee?" Anthony raised his head at last. "Are you truly not dead?"

"Not even the smallest part." Timothy assured him, rather proud that his voice held steady.

Anthony blinked at him clearly torn between his conviction that his friends would not lie to him and the confused understanding of his own fevered brain.

"Prove it." He declared.

"How on earth am I supposed to do that?" Timothy demanded, even as he instinctively caught the knife Gibbs threw towards him. "Oh, no sir, you cannot mean it?"

"Dead men don't bleed, McGee," Gibbs shrugged. "The smallest scratch will suffice."

"And then we could be blood brothers," Anthony declared. "For surely, I am already leaking all around like a muslin cloth, so there must be a drop or two to spare and I always wished for a brother."

McGee knew he was blushing ath those words. But it was hard not to be moved by such honest sentiment. For as much as he loved his sister he had also always wished his older brother had lived long enough for him to know him before being taken with diphtheria. And Anthony, although not without his faults, was also someone he had grown to admire.

"As did I." He agreed.

Crossing over to sit on the edge of Anthony's bed, he pricked the flesh of his thumb with the point of the knife until a small bead of blood blossomed on the surface. Making sure Anthony had seen it, (for he had absolutely no desire to do this a second time), he located a small cut on Anthony's arm, carefully peeled back the edge of the bandage and gently touched his still bleeding thumb to the broken flesh.

"Will that do?"

Surprised that there was no reply, he looked up to see that Anthony had fallen fast asleep, a beatific smile gracing his gaunt features.

"I'd say that'll do, McGee," Gibbs grinned. "Very well indeed."


	10. Chapter 10

As the days passed Anthony's health gradually improved, although, Dr Mallard still judged him too pale and weak and full of bruises to be allowed to descend to the parlour, never mind be allowed to roam abroad. They all took it by turns to fetch and carry for him and provide what they could by means of entertainment. Abby read adventure novels to him with great enthusiasm in a myriad of voices, the Lady brought news of society so that Anthony might not fall behind with the latest gossip, Dr Mallard called daily to dress his wounds with gentle hands and Timothy himself played endless hands of cards, finding to his surprise that he won more often than he lost.

"You would win more frequently if you did not take such outrageous risks." He realised.

"That McGee is why they call it gambling, for where is the sport in playing it safe?" Anthony was unrepentant.

"It might serve to keep your head more firmly attached to your shoulders," They both looked up as Gibbs appeared in the doorway.

"That was one time, sir," Anthony protested. "And it is most unkind of you to keep reminding me of it for who could know that such a brute of a man would prove to be so adept with a sword, much less that he would have any honour to defend?"

Gibbs did not respond. Instead he approached Anthony's sickbed, looking his assistant carefully up and down, before he evidently came to a conclusion. Drawing up a chair he glanced across at Timothy.

"Will you excuse us, McGee?"

"No matter what he might say, sir," Timothy strove to protect his friend, for Gibbs' grave expression did not bode well for Anthony. "He is too weak to bear anything but light conversation."

"I think you might be surprised by what Anthony can bear, McGee," Gibbs gave his assistant an unreadable look. "And this cannot wait."

Even so Timothy hesitated. During the day Gibbs had seemed content to leave the welfare of his assistant in the hands of his friends and went about his business much as before. Timothy wasn't at all sure he was supposed to know that each night their employer had settled himself into the armchair by Anthony's bedside, so that with a soothing word or gentle touch he might keep the raging nightmares at bay.

_It was his thirst which had driven him out of a warm bed in the dead of the night, sliding his feet into his slippers and wrapping his dressing gown around him against the chill. Padding quietly down to the kitchen he drank deeply, taking a glass of the cool water back upstairs with him to avoid the necessity of any further excursions. It was just before he reached the first landing where both Gibbs and Anthony had their rooms that he froze at the sound of voices._

"_I knew when he closed the trapdoor upon me that he had left me in that stinking hole to die." Anthony's ragged tone as much as the stark words made Timothy's blood run cold._

"_I would have found you." Gibbs' response brooked no argument._

"_I never doubted that for a second, sir," Anthony agreed. "The trouble was, I feared I did not possess sufficient strength to endure until I was found. For the knife wound troubled me somewhat and my captors had not the least idea of hospitality."_

_Timothy realised he was eavesdropping on what was obviously a very private conversation. But to move away now might only serve to attract attention to his presence and he had no desire to add to Anthony's burden by embarrassing him in that way._

"_And yet even weak with fever and lack of nourishment, you nonetheless despatched one and nearly evaded another." Gibbs pointed out with no small degree of pride._

"_But now I am merely a burden to you, for it will be some time before I can be of any serviceable use. I can barely manage to hold a fork with any degree of skill, never mind a weapon."_

"_Anthony." Gibbs sighed._

"_Do the others know?" Anthony asked, before his employer could say anything further on that matter._

"_No," Gibbs allowed. "For McGee delivered the ransom note to me with its seal intact. I said merely that the kidnappers had no idea who you were and that you had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Both of which are true enough."_

"_And people say you have no sense of humour," Anthony spoke fondly. Then he sobered. "I know that you do not believe in them, sir, but it was the worst of all co-incidences that I should be mistaken for his Lordship's heir. If I had known he was in town .."_

"_What's done is done. Although the resemblance between you is apparently quite remarkable." _

_Gibbs offered absolution, but for what offence Timothy wasn't at all sure. Although, on reflection it seemed obvious that Anthony might have links, no matter how unwelcome or unacknowledged to quality. Timothy doubted there was a family in England who didn't have similar skeleton's in their closets._

_"Really?_ _I have not seen him since he was a young boy. However, I have no wish to draw you into my troubles, sir," Anthony paused. "If you would prefer that I took my leave..?"_

Timothy had not been able to hear Gibbs response. But the fact that Anthony could even broach the matter distressed him. Clearly his friend had no idea just how troubled their employer had been by his disappearance. Nor how determined Gibbs had been to return him safely to the fold. Knowing what needed to be done, but not at all sure that he was equal to the task, Timothy enlisted re-enforcements.

"You are looking so much better every day." Abigail enthused.

"I don't see how that can be," Anthony pouted. "For Ducky will allow me nothing but thin broth and beef tea. And Gibbs, despite his own great aversion to being in an invalid state has followed the good doctor's instructions to the letter, which is most unfair when what I really need to regain my strength is a decent cut of steak."

"Oh no," McGee shook his head at the rather obvious ploy. "For I am rightly far more scared of Gibbs or Ducky than I am of you and I have orders merely to see that if you drink your beef tea at luncheon you might have a little boiled chicken for supper."

"It is worse than being in the nursery," Anthony scowled. "At least then I might look forward to an egg custard or a strawberry blancmange for desert."

"It is only because Gibbs cares for you so deeply," Abigail pointed out. "He has been quite beside himself with worry about you."

"Worried?" Anthony blinked. "Gibbs knows I can take care of myself. I have been doing so for some considerable time before we made our acquaintance after all."

"You didn't see him when you were missing," Timothy shook his head, "He barely ate, hardly slept indeed he would not rest at all if there was the slightest word or barest rumour which might lead him to you. I think he would have died before he ever gave up the merest chance that he might bring the prodigal safely home."

"I am not Gibbs' son." Anthony averted his eyes.

"Perhaps not in blood," Timothy summoned his courage, for if Anthony could endure being kidnapped and sorely hurt this was the least he could do for his friend. "But you are like kin to all of us. Abby was ready to give up her dowry to secure your release, the Lady her gems, Dr Mallard his stocks and shares and myself my stipend from Lord Trevington. But in fact none of it was necessary for Gibbs took the whole part upon himself to pay the entire ransom."

"He did?" And suddenly Timothy had Anthony's full attention, the formerly dull green eyes sharp with curiosity, despite his body's weakened state. "Gibbs doesn't have that kind of money."

"Evidently, he does," At the time Timothy had been too preoccupied with Anthony's own well being to greatly care where Gibbs had secured such riches. But now his friend's open astonishment had rekindled his own curiosity. "Or he found it from somewhere."

"Help me up." Anthony demanded, all at once.

"Anthony," Timothy baulked. His friend was still barely skin and bones and he had been given no licence to help him further than the chamber pot under the bed. "I'm not at all sure _that_ is such a good idea."

"Either you will help me or I will stagger across to Gibbs' bedroom under my own steam," Anthony assured him. "Either way, Gibbs will without doubt blame you for letting me out of bed and there is much less chance of my _permanently_ injuring myself with your assistance than without it. But I'll leave that matter to your own conscience."

"Help him, Timothy," Abigail insisted. "For he is more than stubborn enough to make the attempt unaided and if he does injure himself I will blame you also."

"Oh very well," Timothy acquiesced, given that he could do nothing else in the face of such blackmail. "But if Gibbs catches us, I am blaming both of you, for you Abigail are higher in his affections and Anthony has been longer in his employ and thus has the advantage of seniority and quite possibly being addled in the head from your recent captivity besides."

"Addled in the head?" Anthony frowned at the description and then grinned. "I rather like that. In fact, I might use that the next time Gibbs decides to chastise me in his customary manner. Now help me up."

Mindful that it was not quite proper, (for all their prostrations of being exactly like brother and sister) ,for Miss Abigail to see Anthony bare legged in his nightgown, he waited until she had excused herself, before helping Anthony carefully to his feet and together they journeyed the few short steps along the landing to Gibbs' bedroom. And if Anthony leant rather heavily upon him, Timothy resolved not to mention it.

Although, never locked, the door to Gibbs bed chamber always stood firmly closed, so much so that Timothy had never even glimpsed beyond the threshold before today. The plain blue walls were not unexpected, nor the well crafted but functional wooden furniture. The rug on the scrubbed wooden floor boards was of good quality although a little worn in places.

The patchwork quilt, clearly hand made with hours of love and patience, was more of a surprise, but it was the large rectangle of bare wall which captured all of Anthony's attention.

"Oh."

The surprised huff of air was all he managed before his legs quite unexpectedly gave out and Timothy was left to struggle to support the suddenly dead weight in his arms, trying desperately to stop Anthony's apparently now entirely addled brain making forceful contact with the hard wooden floorboards. He was losing the battle when suddenly much of the weight was taken from him and he looked across to see Gibbs supporting Anthony's other side.

"Sir, I .." He knew not how to excuse their breach of their employer's privacy.

"Sit him down," Gibbs' tone was clipped even as he helped to steer the sagging figure towards the edge of the bed. Only once the younger man was safely seated, did he give vent to his feelings, anger, frustration, and worry making his tone sharp. "What on earth were you _thinking_?"

"You sold it." Still staring at the blank spot on the wall Anthony's tone was rich with disbelief.

Timothy held his breath as Gibbs looked at his assistant, his expression dark with emotion, before turning his own gaze to the bare patch of wall. Looking back again Timothy saw him take in Anthony's stricken expression, his deathly pallor and the stiff way he was holding himself as if braced for a physical blow. Gibbs scrubbed a hand over his face, visibly collecting himself before he spoke.

"It was but oil on canvas."

"Indeed, it was nothing of the sort," Anthony refuted with a sharpness of tone that no mere assistant would generally dare utilise with any employer. "It was a masterpiece and so much more besides. I cannot imagine why you would even contemplate such an action at all. Never mind consider it anything like a fair exchange."

"You of all people should understand that value is a relative concept." Gibbs tilted his head.

To which Anthony did not respond at all, except to merely press his lips together very tightly, as two pink spots blossomed in his cheeks. His jaw clenched tight and his eyes suddenly became very bright. Watching his friend struggle Timothy wondered if he should take his leave, but he could not help but feel that too many people in his lifetime had left Anthony to his own devices and he was not about to be counted among their number.

"I am truly in your debt, sir," Anthony finally managed, in a slightly choked tone. "And if I do nothing else of value with my life I will endeavour to repay your kindness by striving to reunite you with your most cherished possession."

"Like hell you will." Gibbs vetoed that sharply.

Anthony looked up at him, his eyes wide and startled in his pale face at Gibbs' curt tone, looking for all the world like a school boy being roundly scolded for some transition he didn't fully understand. Once again Timothy was reminded just how physically and emotionally frail his friend continued to be after his dreadful ordeal. Belatedly, Gibbs clearly realised it also, for he laid a gentle hand on Anthony's cheek and softened his tone considerably.

"Tony, that portrait can do nothing to replace those I love."

Timothy straightened up slightly, holding his breath in so tightly that his chest hurt. All at once, it seemed as if everything depended on Anthony not misunderstanding all the layers of affection behind that statement. For if he were truly to come back to himself he needed to accept that they had all, but most especially Gibbs, been willing to do whatever it took to see him safely home.

"In truth sir, I think you have struck a rather poor bargain." Anthony managed.

"You will allow me to be the judge of that," Gibbs placed a firm hand on his assistant's shoulder and squeezed hard.

"Then you shall do me the honour of accepting my eternal gratitude and steadfast loyalty, sir." Anthony finally allowed, after a moment or two to gather his emotions. "For truly I have nothing at all else to offer you."

In response, Gibbs gave a genuine smile and something tight in Timothy's chest loosened, as he watched their employer, muss Anthony's hair fondly.

"Which I shall count as a fair exchange, for to my mind, those are qualities beyond riches and I never wish to hear another word to the contrary on the matter are we clear?"

"Yes sir." Anthony hesitated.

Gibbs rolled his eyes.

"You are still too weak to stand and yet you remain determined to push the boundaries?

"I stood," Anthony defended his actions. "And then I walked here unaided." His eyes slid towards Timothy. "Well, mostly. That has to be worth a decent dinner at least, instead of this regime of soups and beef tea, some lamb chops perhaps, or steak, or something a man can actually chew."

"Really?" Gibbs pretended to consider that. "How would you feel about a side of venison?"

Anthony and Timothy exchanged a look of surprise, for venison was a rare treat indeed and a meat far more expensive than this household usually entertained at the dinner table.

"It was Lord Morrow's gift, in thanks for the safe return of his heir and apology for your part in the matter," Gibbs explained. "And he also wished to pass on his assurance that if he might ever be of service to you in matter, then he stands willing to do your bidding."

"That is more than kind of his Lordship," Anthony allowed. "But I cannot think of any business of mine, which might require his assistance, for I have no wish to be more than I am. And from now on I resolve from now on to live an entirely quiet life and not cause any of you a moment's concern."

"So, I should sell these theatre tickets I have already purchased for the opening of that new show next month?" Timothy suggested mischievously. "And also tell Mrs Harrison that you will not be able to make an eighth at her supper party on the 27th when she was so hoping to introduce you to her niece, who is freshly arrived from the country?"

"Never fear," Gibbs put in, his own eyes glinting with amusement at the impossible concept of his assistant settling for a quiet life. "For I am sure I can find sufficient book keeping and correspondence to keep Anthony fully occupied at home."

"You are too cruel, sir," Anthony scowled at him. "For you know I do not at all have the temperament to be your clerk. And you McGee, were merely making up the theatre engagement you interrupted at the commencement of our acquaintance, a debt which it would dishonour us both to neglect. Also, you do me a disservice to imagine I would wish to disappoint any young lady hoping for an introduction."

"So?" Timothy smiled. "In other words, everything shall be as before?"

"That depends," Anthony cast a shy glance at Gibbs. "Despite everything I am more than wiling to continue as your assistant, sir if you are still prepared to allow it?"

"Indeed, I wouldn't have it any other way." Gibbs smiled.

* * *

><p>AN - For those of you who expressed the hope I might reveal a little more about Anthony's past, I direct you to Sequiter's brilliant story "Quality" coming soon to a computer near you. For my own part my next project is a tale set in the early days of Mr Anthony and Mr Gibbs association as Anthony finds his way as Gibbs new assistant. Many thanks to all who took a risk and brought into sharing this NCIS Victorian Verse. I hope you have enjoyed reading it as much as I have enjoyed writing it.<p> 


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